Memento Mori
by Peggy Olson
Summary: Survival at all costs has always been the point of the Games, and this year will be no exception. Ten tributes, each one created by a reader, connected by the arena and the need to get home alive. But there can only be one winner...
1. Rain

**Saffron Kain**

On the day of the Reaping, it was raining in District Six. A steady kind of rain that fell in sheets, making deep puddles in the cobblestone roads. The people didn't seem to mind. There were darker clouds on the horizon, far away from their District and raining harder on someone else. But the weather did cause a change of plans for the ceremonies. Instead of gathering in the usual organized groups in the town square, people stood where they pleased under the awnings of the nearby shops. Those who had no relatives in the draw watched listlessly from their windows; anxious to be done with it all and return to their warm drinks and favourite chairs. A tent had been set up to keep the mayor and the escort from the Capitol dry as they waited on their usual stage, with the row of past winners seated behind them and boredom in their dreary shadows.

The mayor was a thin, gaunt looking man with iron grey hair, and a face like a horseman. There was a cruel sharpness about him, and he seemed as though he were carved from stone a hundred years before. It was only more obvious when he was standing next to Ulysses Book - who was _very_ colourful, as he was expected to be. You could tell right away that he came from the Capitol, with his seaweed green dreadlocks and the half a dozen golden bangles he wore on each arm. For the occasion, he'd even painted a dark blue square on the middle of his lips. In front of the small wooden stage stood a line of Peacekeepers, the rain beating like a drumbeat on their shields. Once, several years ago, a girl from a large family had had her name on one-hundred and three slips of paper. Her mother had been frantic with a worry that had built up more and more each year, and just as the Reaping began, she had jumped on stage and smashed everything apart. The ball, the chairs - she'd even tried her hand at the mayor and the representative before the Peacekeepers had stopped her.

The mother was quietly executed the next day. The daughter was reaped. Since then, the Peacekeepers had stood like a silent warning. It's no use, they seemed to say, you'll never be able to protect your children.

It was difficult to hear the mayor's speech over the sound of the rain. They'd set up a microphone, but it was an old system that hissed and popped, and caused the mayor's voice to echo over itself. In a corner of the town square, among the crowd of onlookers, stood a giant. He had eyes the colour of chocolate cake and freckles on his nose. Nearly seven feet tall, it had been difficult for him to find an awning high enough to stand under. He was called Saffron Kain. He was seventeen years old, and his name was in the reaping thirty-two times this year. On his shoulders sat a child of six; his younger brother, Aloe. Aloe was a quiet boy, and very small for his age. He didn't quite understand what the Reaping was about, since their mother had gone out of her way to shield him from the Games as best she could, but he liked to watch the papers turning in the funny glass balls. So his big brother hoisted him up, and made sure that he could see.

The older Kain boy made most people in the district uneasy. His size made him seem dangerous, and his father had been executed for thievery. His mother was one of the basket women, who went out into the fields to pick the medicinal herbs and flowers that District Six cultivated. Kain himself had taken a job with an elderly man called Leir, who was the local pharmacist. Everyone seemed to work their whole lives so that people in the Capitol could have a tonic for everything. To help them sleep, to help them wake up, to help them remember and to help them forget. Of course, there were more elaborate kinds of medications that could be made; but in those cases, the raw ingredients were shipped to the Capitol to be processed by their private technicians. They didn't want a district getting the upper hand on them and being able to ransom their medicine. But Leir didn't care a lick about what the people in the Capitol wanted, so he used his knowledge to heal the people in town. The people who really needed help. And the Peacekeepers let him get away with it, because sometimes they needed medicine too.

When Kain was twelve, after his father died, his mother told him that he'd need to find work. She said if he could do odd jobs that would be fine, but something like an apprenticeship would be even better. They needed to make up the income. Especially since the family had been billed for her husband's pitiful funeral, and the cost of the execution bullet that had ended his life. But nobody could bring themselves to give the boy work, because even at that young age he was starting to grow as tall as a tree, and because most of them were afraid of getting on the wrong side of the mayor. Old Leir said that it was impossible to get on the mayor's good side, since he didn't have one, and gave the boy a job working the mortar and the pill press. Both jobs took a strong hand and a light touch. Kain was a natural.

As the years went by, the old man lost a little of his stamina and a lot of his dexterity. Arthritis claimed his hands, so that they were twisted like claws; his knuckles red and sore. He could hear the bones grinding against one another whenever he tried to unbend his fingers. There was a medicine he made for himself that lessened the pain, but he could no longer do any delicate work. It was then up to Kain to harvest the minuscule seeds from inside the flowers, to pluck their petals, and to clip the tiniest of leaves from the herb bushes. Leir still bartered for ingredients and dealt with the costumers, but he taught Kain most everything else. How to measure properly, how to tell certain plants apart. What could save your life and what could kill you. And Kain soaked up all that knowledge like he was a sponge.

Nobody in town realized that the same boy they shook their heads at, the child of the woman they refused to look in the eye, was the person who cured their fevers and healed their wounds. If they had known, maybe less of them would have given him cold, sidelong glances on that rainy day. Thinking of what a relief it would be if Saffron Kain were reaped. It would mean one of the other boys would be safe, and perhaps - with his sheer size - he might even win. Bringing food and prosperity to the district for a whole year.

Either way, he'd make himself useful for a change.

Kain knew what the people in town thought of him, but he didn't mind. He figured that everyone was just scared of the way life could turn on them. When they looked at him, they saw a reminder of danger. The danger of being executed. The danger of being blacklisted. The danger of their children living in poverty. The danger of what kind of strength somebody that big might have, and what a boy with his rotten kind of luck might choose to do with it. That's just how people were. It was no use blaming them for being afraid. Better just to shake your head at the sad state of the world, and do your best not to get bitter. Because even though he was head and shoulders above everybody in the district, Saffron Kain never looked down on anyone.

Working at the pharmacy, he started to learn all kinds of ways to make it easier for people to take foul-tasting stuff. One of his favourite tricks was using honey and lavender flowers to make a sort of hard candy. At first, he'd the recipe them whenever Aloe had a cold or the flu - just take whatever medicinal paste was needed, and blend it into the honey mixture instead of putting it in the press. After awhile, Kain had taken to carrying a few of the plain candies around with him, wrapped in small squares of paper. Just in case he bumped into any little children as he went about his day. He liked children. They way they laughed brightly and loudly, and looked up at him with awe-filled eyes and asked him questions about what it was like to be so tall, and if he could touch the ceiling. And then he _would _touch the ceiling, and their eyes would go so round and big that it was like he'd just done a magic trick.

"Look!" Aloe said, kicking his feet into Kain's chest, "There's Mommy!"

Their mother was quietly pushing her way towards him. She was in her heavy coat, and her hair was damp from the rain. Kain smiled at her, trying to look relaxed. He knew how much she worried about the Reaping. If something happened to Kain, she'd have to find somebody to watch Aloe in the evenings, and that wouldn't come cheap. She'd lose the money he brought home, on top of it. And she'd lose a son.

"You're lucky I've got sharp eyes," Valeria Kain said as she took her place beside them, "You blend right in with this crowd. I almost didn't see you."

Aloe giggled down at her.

"How's the weather up there?" She teased her littlest son.

"Rainy."

"Is Leir alright?" Kain asked softly, as the mayor droned on in the background.

The rain had brought a blast of cold air with it, that had aggravated all the little pains in the old man's joints. He'd barely been able to move the day before, and had no choice but to confine himself to his bed. Valeria had been tending to him all morning, while her sons put on their best clothes and made his way to the town square.

"When I left him he was sleeping like a baby," Valeria replied, taking his large hand in hers, "Leave it to you to worry about someone else at a time like this."

A tense, unhappy suspense filled the air as the mayor finished his speech. And as Ulysses Book stepped up to the podium, the crowd had gone as quiet as a graveyard. The only thing to be heard was the rhythm of the rain.

It was time.

"Ladies and gentlemen of my beloved District Six," Ulysses said, with an operatic flourish of his hands, "It is my great pleasure to announce your tributes for this year's Hunger Games!"

He took a few gliding steps towards the lottery of female names, reached in and pulled out a slip of paper. The girls of the district held their breaths. Some clenched their fists, others closed their eyes, some seemed to quietly whisper bargains to the sky. The younger ones had tears welling in their eyes. Kain could see fear everywhere he turned. People wondering how they would live if they lost their daughters, their sisters, their nieces and their friends.

"Tansy Capro!" Ulysses declared.

A woman screamed out - a wild, hysterical cry, like a lunatic's. A girl of thirteen, with auburn hair and a dark blue dress stepped onto the stage. All the blood had drained from her face, and when Ulysses happily shook her hand, she wore an expression of violation.

"Congratulations, Miss Capro! I'm sure you'll do us all proud!" The escort said, more to the cameras that were filming him than to anyone else, "Now let's see which strapping young man will be joining you in the arena!"

He pulled the slip of paper from the ball, and took it over to the podium. As he opened it, an overlarge drop of rained rolled off the edge of the tent and splashed right onto his hands.

"Oh dear," He said suddenly, "It's… a bit smudged."

He peered at the bleeding ink, desperate to make out any sort of a name at all. If he had to drawn again, he'd look foolish in front of the entire Capitol. Who knew what would happen then? Should he call out for volunteers? Just as he was about to choke on his own anxiety, the mayor rose from his chair and looked down his nose at the slip.

"Can you make it out?" Ulysses asked quietly enough that the microphone failed to carry his voice.

The mayor glanced at the waiting crowd, and whispered the answer into Ulysses's ear.

"Saffron Kain!"

A murmur of relief rippled through the crowd, who seemed to relax as they turned to look expectantly at Kain. They hoped he wouldn't make a scene that would embarrass their district during the live broadcast.

But the boy just stood where he was for a moment. Stunned.

"The man said your name, and all the people are looking at us." Aloe told his brother, as though it was the greatest of all curiosities.

Kain gently lifted him off of his shoulders and put him on the ground. He patted his scruffy little head and gave him a sad, steady smile. Then he looked at his mother. Her eyes were full of anguish and fear, and she quickly pulled Aloe towards her and held him close, as if she wanted to hold her bigger son but didn't dare. Kain gently kissed her on the forehead and began walking towards the stage.

He held his head high, no longer trying to shrink himself into the world that could not fit him. Kain walked as proudly as a soldier, his face unreadable, his mouth a stern line. When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he turned to look at the crowd. A thousand faces, maybe more, obscured by the rain that was soaking through his only set of decent clothes. He tried to look each and every one of them in the eyes. He peered at the faces high in the windows, he even stared at the people that had turned away from him in shame.

My name is Saffron Kain, he told them in his silence. You stood by as they killed my father. You stood by as they let us starve. You resent me. You fear me. You have sent me to horrors few of you can comprehend. But I will go.

My name is Saffron Kain, and I would fight to the death a thousand times to protect my district.

And he walked across the stage and shook hands with Ulysses Book.


	2. Justice

**Jai Terradon**

Some people have terrible luck.

The Justice Building in District Eight didn't see much use. It was an old and skeletal building, probably a relic from before the Dark Days, that had somehow managed to hang on throughout the rebellion. It had walls made of exposed corrugated iron, with patches of rust that seemed to seep out the corners like a red fungus. Most of the time, it was where the Peacekeepers tossed the rowdy drunks who needed to dry out. There wasn't a lot of crime, since the textile factories could be such gruesomely dangerous places; with a thousand ways to lose a finger or hand, a hundred ways to melt your skin off, and three dozen ways to die instantly. Everybody had learned to be cautious. District Eight was the kind of place that had little use for reckless youth.

Apart from the drunk tank, the building had a few decent-sized offices where the Peacekeepers filed their reports and stored their papers, and the two rooms that were only used once a year.

In one of those rooms - the one with the purple velvet cushions on the leather sofa, and the intricate silk rug hanging on the wall - was one Jai Terradon. A young woman who was less than pleased with her current situation. She stretched her legs across the couch and ran a hand through her short, dark hair with a despondent sigh. That morning, she'd been relaxed; unconcerned, even. Like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders.

She was eighteen, and today was her last reaping. She'd never taken out any tesserae, so she had a better chance than most girls her age; and as she'd watched the thousands of tiny slips of paper turning and falling over each other in that big glass ball, she'd actually smiled. After this morning, the biggest fear in her life was supposed to disappear. After this morning, she'd be able to let go of all of her burdens and embrace life fully for the first time. It had seemed impossible that her name would be called.

And then, of course, it was.

Part of Jai wanted to scream until she couldn't breathe. Part of her wanted to fight and claw her way out of the Justice Building, and run as far away as anyone could. Run until her legs were so tired that the muscles burned. Run so fast that her ears filled with the sound of her pumping heart and her rushing blood, and not even the loudest sirens could be heard. But she couldn't do any of that. If she screamed, the Peacekeepers would think she was becoming hysterical and they'd sedate her. She'd seen it a few times over the years. A tribute would go into the Justice Building shaking like a leaf, or begging and crying, or shouting some incoherent nonsense. When they came out of the Justice Building, their eyes were glassy and their mouths were slack, and they were hurried silently onto the train to the Capitol. And if she ran away, they'd catch her. And even if they didn't, she'd never be able to live with herself.

When Jai was four years old, she started working as a scavenger for one of the cotton mills. Her father had first lost three fingers on his right hand to a ring spinner, and then lost his job because he couldn't do it anymore. It seemed to him that he was a failure, who would be no good to his wife and daughter. So, one morning, he went for a walk and never came back. They found his body in the lake the next day. The factory where he worked usually paid the people who got mutilated a compensation sum - fifteen dollars for each finger, seventy-five for the arm; but when he killed himself, they said that since he was dead he wouldn't have been able to collect income anyway. So they never paid out.

That was when his wife started drinking. Jai didn't remember much about her mother, except the smell of the liquor. A sickly sweetness, like molasses, mingling with a sharp bitterness that Jai sometimes caught in the air around the first aid clinics. Every time she smelled it, she felt sick to her stomach. But liquor didn't come cheap, and the money for it soon ran out. So Jai's mother sold her only child to the mill, just so she could buy another bottle of the stuff.

Most of the kids who worked as scavengers were six or seven years old, but it didn't really matter what your age was as long as you could fit under the machines. The cotton mill took in orphans, and occasionally paid for a child as they did with Jai. They referred to the money that they gave her mother as an _advance on future earnings_. She slept in a small bed with three other little girls in a room with no windows, above the factory floor. The machines ran twenty-four hours a day, and there were always at least four scavengers working at a time. At first, it was almost impossible to sleep at all because of the constant noise. The whir of the spooling machines, the clatter of the metal looms, the sloshing of the enormous vats of bleach. But somehow, eventually, it was if the sounds became a natural rhythm to her. Like when a sailor adapts to the creaking of his ship.

Jai and the other children were rarely able to go outside, had no concept of play and ate all of their meals standing up. It was miserable, dangerous work. Their job was to keep the machinery free of debris, so that it wouldn't clog or overheat. Most of the time, they had to lie flat on their stomachs and scurry under the machines to sweep beneath them. If they made even the slightest wrong move, they could easily be mauled, or even killed.

There was a girl of six, with long and beautiful hair the colour of autumn leaves. Jai had always been a little jealous of her, and her porcelain beauty. But the girl was always just a bit careless when she worked beneath the spinners, clearing off the dust and oil. And one day, the claws of the spinner had caught up the locks of her lovely hair with the same mechanical ferocity it grabbed the cotton twine. It pulled with such force, that the scalp was ripped right from the girl's head. She had died of infection two weeks later. Jai had gone upstairs and shaved her head bald that very same night.

Even when she left the mill, and her hair had started to grow back, she always wore it short. The image of the spinner, twisting those blood stained tresses in amongst the cotton threads, had burned itself into her memory.

By the time she was seven, Jai had grown too tall to work as a scavenger. The foreman told her that her mother had died of a liver ailment. He gave her two options. She could continue to live at the mill, with a roof over her head and meals provided for her, if she worked as a piecer. Or she could take her chances on the streets. Being a piecer meant working the spinning mule, and quickly catching hold of the threads that had split apart so that you could tie them back together. You had to be quick as lightning, with reflexes as sharp as a cat's. It was the surest way for a girl to lose the tips of her fingers. It was an obvious decision, as far as Jai was concerned.

The trouble was, a seven year-old girl had no business living on the streets of District Eight. Even one as determined and bright as Jai. Before the week was out, she was huddled desperately in the corner of an alley, her insides twisting with hunger, and her body numb with cold. She fell asleep one moonlit night, thinking she might never wake up again.

When she did open her eyes, two and a half days later, it was to a fantasy. She was tucked into an enormous bed, as soft and fluffy as a cloud. The crisp white sheets were fine and smooth, unlike the coarse raw materials she had handled at the mill. Jai snuggled up to them, and breathed in their clean linen smell. The rest of the room was like a fireworks display of colour and texture. The padded headboard of the bed was shaped like a cusped arch, and covered in scarlet damask. The duvet was a similar colour, but made from a delicate silk. The walls were panelled with an apple-green fabric that Jai didn't recognize, but it was smooth and a little cold when she touched it. There was a paisley pattern printed on it in shimmering gold.

The room, as it turned out, was in the house that belonged to Kasandra Terradon. Kasandra was somewhat infamous in the district. She had started out in the factories, working the dyes. She knew tricks for getting every colour in the rainbow to come out just so. There wasn't a shade or hue that she couldn't match with exacting precision. Her skills were in such high demand, that she began to charge extra for her work - the fabrics that she made sold like wildfire in the bright and ostentatious Capitol. Eventually, she began sketching her own patterns and designs, and worked up enough money to start her own small business. She quickly became one of the wealthiest people in town.

Kasandra had never married, and that didn't really bother her. In her eyes, a husband or lover would either try to take advantage of her wealth, or else resent her influence and independence. But she'd also never had any children, which was a great regret of hers. Until she had, quite literally, stumbled upon Jai; she had almost stepped on her small body where it lay beside the street.

Jai never knew how happy and easy life could be until she was taken in by Kasandra. Their house was full of books, and drawings, and vivid colours, and engaging conversations. Kasandra was always kind, but she wasn't a particularly affectionate woman. In her business, she was adamant about the flawless quality of the products she produced; and, in a small way, she was like that with her daughter as well. For Jai, it meant that she always strove for an impossible standard of perfection. Maybe she was trying to earn her right to be Kasandra's daughter. Maybe, no matter how safe the world seemed, she would always be afraid of someone kicking her onto the streets or selling her into danger.

The Hunger Games seemed desperate to reiterate that truth to her. She knew that all of her thoughts of running away were pointless. If it wasn't the games, or the cotton mill, it would always be something else.

Jai paced the length of the room in the Justice Building, hoping that Kasandra would come soon to say goodbye. She could hear the parents of the boy tribute next door. The father was softly giving advice that was muffled by the walls, and the mother was crying. Jai didn't know the boy personally. She absent-mindedly wondered if she'd be forced to kill him, or if he might be first to die.

Finally, Kasandra arrived.

"It's so hard to believe." The old woman said quietly.

Jai couldn't speak. She didn't know what to say.

"Here, I want you to take this with you," Kasandra handed her a small velvet box, "I had it made for you. For your next birthday."

It was a locket on a thin golden chain. On the front were two swords, crossed over one another, carved out of a green cameo stone. It was the most precious thing the girl had ever owned, and she held it in her hands as carefully as she would a piece of a star.

"I hope it brings you luck."

"I…" Jai stammered, a lump in her throat, "I… can't…"

Kasandra grabbed her shoulders firmly and looked into her eyes.

"You have to, my dear," she said, "Believe me, if I could take your place, I would. But you have no choice. You have to fight. You have to kill. And you have to come back to me."

* * *

_A/N: Man, being reaped sucks._

_But you know what _doesn't_ suck? The awesome reviews you guys left me! They were honestly the very most best reviews of all time, and I'm hyper-grateful. I hope you liked this chapter, too._


	3. Ambition

**Royal Alabaster**

Mustafa Flag was easily the most popular of all the representatives from the Capitol. He was charming, educated, and very shrewd. The Gamemakers respected his influence, and the sponsors trusted him. Since he had begun his job as escort to District One five years ago, three of his tributes had won. It was an excellent track record, and one he fully intended to maintain. The first decision he needed to make, the one he always made, was which of his tributes was more deserving of his attention than the other. Flag couldn't invest himself fully into both tributes, because even in the best case scenario, one of them would die. People were counting on him to tell them which fighter to bet on, which fighter would prove the most entertaining and industrious, and which fighter was most likely to win.

As soon as the reaping was finished, and the tributes had been taken to say farewell to their families, Flag had boarded the train car destined for the Capitol. He tossed two stacks of papers onto a round mahogany table, and hung his dark grey suit jacket on a peg by the window. The air inside the car was stifling - it was always so hot and dry in District One, he could barely wait to get back to the cool mountain air of the Rockies. He loosened his cactus coloured tie and poured himself a glass of water with plenty of ice. It was no good trying to open the window. It always jammed, and took him about fifteen minutes to pry loose. And there wasn't a breeze to shift the air around anyway.

He unbuttoned the cuffs of his sleeves and started reading the files in front of him. The first one concerned the girl, Flare Heartforth, who had plenty of information on record. She came from a family in the diamond business, parents executed for embezzlement twelve years ago, her uncle told her it was some kind of accident. That same uncle put her into arena training when she was nine, where she excelled in hand-to-hand combat and showed impressive levels of intelligence. There was paperwork from her school, medical records, and the uncle had a few citations for disturbing the peace, but nothing else seemed to catch Flag's eye. Somebody else, somebody who didn't have his instincts, would have pegged her as the superior player. But there was something about the boy that told him to not to decide so hastily.

It could have been the way the kid had stood so proudly on the stage, refusing the volunteers who tried to take his place. Or maybe it was something about how he'd looked Flag straight in the eye when he shook his hand, as if he were thanking him for drawing his name.

Royal Alabaster didn't have much of a history on paper. He had school records until two years ago, when he'd dropped out. They were a steady spiral of declining grades and angry red-inked notes about his on-going struggle with authority figures. Flag couldn't blame him. The kid grew up working part-time in the turquoise mine, braking his back for next to nothing; then heading to the same school building as the children of families who earned more in a day than he could in a year. It probably hadn't seemed like much fun. And that was about it. There were some sporadic investigations into Royal's father, but most of the reports were blacked out and the man had never been in any concrete danger. Probably just harboured some unpopular sentiments. He took a long sip of water and stared out of the window at the clear blue sky, so unlike the skies back home.

The father might make things a little sticky if the boy did well, but it wouldn't be anything Flag couldn't handle. He smiled to himself and watched the light dancing through the ice cubes in his glass. He was pretty sure he had a fourth winner on his hands.

There was a far away sound of cheering, that meant the tributes were being walked from the Justice Building to the station. Every year, it was a sort of impromptu parade. People lined up on the streets, and tossed flowers and tokens to the two teenagers who were destined for the Games. At the same time, the cameras at the station were being set up, and Flag knew that soon his image would be broadcasted all across Panem once more. He straightened his tie and made sure he looked put-together in a small square mirror next to the door that led to the sleeping cars.

Behind his reflection, he could see Lazuli Dorok entering the car through the door behind him. Lazuli was a voluptuous woman in her early thirties, with deeply tanned skin, caramel coloured hair and a beauty mark on her left cheek. She was very attractive, which was one of the reasons why Flag had selected her as this year's mentor. He usually worked with Hansome Conrad, who had won the Games forty years before. Hansome was gruff, and hardly what one would call _ready for television_, but he was an excellent trainer and had one particular trait that Flag found invaluable. He never argued. Flag couldn't stand it when the mentors got clever about arranging sponsorships by themselves, or how to coach his tributes. Debate was not a favourite pastime of his.

That was why he only ever employed a single mentor. District One was rich enough in previous winners that he could easily assign each tribute their own mentor, as he had done his first year as an escort. In hadn't gone well.

"What's this?" Lazuli asked, raising an eyebrow at the papers on the table. The sound of the crowd outside sounded nearer.

"Research," Flag explained with a wave of his hand, "I was trying to decide who was really worth my time."

"And did you decide?" She flipped through a few of the pages about Flare, not really bothering to read anything. As far as she was concerned, it was an obvious choice. Flare had the training and the background necessary to win.

"Yes. I need you to come up with a training schedule for Royal Alabaster once we arrive at the Capitol. Interview him about his skills, focus on shoring up his weaknesses. The girl can continue practicing with her knives. I'd like her to get a fairly impressive score from the Gamemakers - higher than the boy's if possible."

Before Lazuli had the chance to answer him, the platform was overtaken with cheers and whistles, and the sound of footsteps. The tributes had arrived.

Royal could barely believe how many people were there, cheering him on. He was holding on to a stuffed bear that a little girl had thrown him, the fur crinkling softly under his hand. He smiled his lopsided grin as the platform lit up with the camera flashes from people who wanted a souvenir. If he came home victorious, they'd ask him to sign the photos they took.

And if he died, they'd burn his picture and forget about him.

The thought made his smile falter a little, but he was still confident that he was ready. He knew that he could win the games. His fellow tribute beside him seemed much more composed, but Royal didn't care. He waved happily at the people of the district as the streamers they threw fluttered in the air around them. It hadn't been long before Mustafa Flag stepped onto the platform behind him, in one of his famous grey suits and a pair of square sunglasses. Flag grabbed Royal's shoulder, as though he were congratulating him, and managed to twist the boy so that he was properly facing the cameras.

"Is that your girlfriend?" Flag asked so quietly, Royal thought for a second that he imagined it. But sure enough, he looked, and saw his roommate pushing the crowd aside so that a pregnant girl in a white dress could pass through.

"Jade!" He called, and moved like he was going to run over to her. Flag's hand held him in place, and he settled down while the crowd gently helped the dark-haired girl onto the stage.

"I just had to say goodbye one last time!" She sounded out of breath and anxious. Now that she was close enough for the cameras, Flag let him go, and Royal wiped a tear off of her cheek and leaned over to kiss her. Perfectly in frame.

"I'll come back, baby," He said with such confidence that it lit up his whole face, "I'll come back."

The train whistle sounded, and the Peacekeepers gently pulled Jade away. The expression on her face was oddly torn as she heard the final chimes that meant the train was preparing to leave the station. But then it seemed she couldn't help but laugh when Royal's ginger-haired head stuck out of one of the windows just before they sped away, and he sent her that endearing grin of his and exaggerated wave.

"Take care of her, Graystone! Or I'll kick your ass!" he called to his friend.

Royal was grinning from ear to ear when he pulled his head back into the train car. Flag marvelled at how easily the kid had gotten his damn window open.

"That was stupid." Flare said disdainfully from her seat in the velvet-lined booth, glancing at him sideways from underneath her eyelashes.

"What? I was just saying goodbye." Royal shrugged.

"If the train had started moving while your head was sticking out of the window, you would have gotten severe whiplash. There'd be no way to heal it before the games, and you would have been dead meat in the arena," She explained, "So, yeah, _just saying goodbye_ was pretty stupid."

"That's true about the whiplash," Flag nodded thoughtfully, "But it was a nice touch for the crowd."

Lazuli cleared her throat and flashed him a look that was cold enough to freeze hell over twice. She stood up, smoothed her skirt and said:

"If you don't mind, I'd like to have a word with Flare. We'll be in the dining car if you need us."

Flare seemed a little surprised, but she nodded with a quick smile and followed the other woman out the room. Roy figured that maybe Lazuli wanted to talk to them about strategy separately and in private, which was something he could appreciate. In fact, he was happy to have a chance to talk to Flag without the competition overhearing. He knew that he'd never survive an alliance with Flare, so he wasn't even going to pretend that it was a possibility.

"So, you really think that stuff with Jade read well?" Royal asked, leaning back into the cushions and putting his hands behind his head.

"It's definitely the kind of thing people remember."

"Good, because she was pretty nervous," he took a deep breath and looked away, "Things haven't been so great between us, you know. We're not even together anymore. But I told her at the Justice Building to come out to the platform for a goodbye kiss, and to try and make herself look sad. I'm pretty sure I won't get a lot of sponsors, so I thought if I had a big touching moment, people might be more inclined to show their support when I'm in the arena. Send medicine to the boy from District One with the baby on the way."

"Clever." Flag chuckled. He was pleasantly surprised.

"I'm not a moron. I know that girls get sponsors, because people worry about them more. And Careers get sponsors, because the gamblers think they can make money off of them. So I gotta do what I can to stand out, especially next to little Miss Heartforth," He gestured to the door with his thumb, "I can't just sit on my hands and hope that people take a shine to me."

"Can I ask you something, son?" Flag said in a way that was meant to make him look concerned and trustworthy. But Royal could see the gears turning in the man's head.

"Shoot to kill."

"Why didn't you let a volunteer take your place? That is to say, why do you want to put yourself through this?"

Royal scowled. "Mr. Flag, I'm not wealthy. I'm not well-regarded. I'm nothing. I live in a dive that's half the size of this train car, and I have to share it in order to make the rent. Jade isn't my favourite person in the world, but she's carrying my baby. And when that baby comes, what will it have to look forward to? A life just like mine? I wouldn't wish it on my enemies, let alone my kid." He leaned forward and looked at a spot of dirt on the carpet, losing himself in far-away thoughts.

"What if there was a way I could change all of that?" He asked Flag, "What if it was you? The Capitol promises fame and fortune to whoever wins their Games. That's the only way out for me. Would you throw that away? Give the chance to some Career asshole who was already richer, happier and fatter than you? What's the worst that's going to happen to a kid like that who has to stay home one year longer? His parents might be a little disappointed that Sparkle-Pants Jr. doesn't get to go into a murderous blood-frenzy this summer, but there are worse things than letting down mumsy and da-dums."

He felt a twinge of remorse grip his chest, as he remembered seeing his father that morning. It had been a surprise that his old man had shown up at all. His step-mother had cried her eyes out and given him a hug tight enough that a boa constrictor would have been proud of it. And his snotty little half-brother had made some terribly clever comments about how he hoped Royal enjoyed his brief time with the Capitol fat-cats before he was murdered for their amusement. But his father hadn't said anything. He'd just stood in the corner of the room, looking so tired and suddenly so old, and he hadn't even bothered to say goodbye.

But that was what it was like with his dad. That's what it had always been like. Royal could remember a time when his father had been his best friend. He remembered showing his dad the funny things he found for his _collection. _Stuff like interestingly shaped rocks, or the metal caps off of the glass bottles people drank out of in the Capitol. Once, he'd found a little red rubber ball that had become his prized possession - red was his favourite colour. He kept it all in a wooden box under his bed. Sometimes, his father would come home from work with a trinket in his pocket and say: "I found a piece of treasure for your collection." And Royal would be ridiculously happy for days on end.

And then, things changed. He started to notice how stubborn his father was, and how poorly they lived. But he knew his dad was smart and a hard-worker, so he asked why they didn't do better. Why they didn't have more money. His dad told him that sometimes, it was better to stay where you were; that when flowers grew too tall, people cut them down. Royal hadn't understood. Why be content to survive if you knew you could thrive? That's when he decided he needed to make his own way in the world, and not long after was when he figured out that he'd be set for life if he won the Games.

His father bitterly despised the idea of the Hunger Games, and had even more poisonous thoughts for the people of the Capitol. But Royal was determined to go through with his plan. Years passed, and nothing changed between them; Royal began training himself for the arena, and his dad just seemed to get angrier and angrier with him. After awhile, they had nothing left to say to each other. Silence stood between them like a wall. And even on what could have been his last morning with his son, Royal's father hadn't been able to break through that silence. Not even to say goodbye.

Sitting in that luxurious train, thinking about all the things he was and could be, thinking about his father, Royal Alabaster was all at once consumed with an uncanny hesitation. He had been preparing himself for this moment since he was ten years old, and he had never before doubted that his skills would be enough.

Now, on the eve of battle, he wondered for the very first time in his life if he could survive the Hunger Games.

* * *

_A/N: Look at me, getting through my update so fast. Awesome work, Peggy. Awesome work._

_Get used to Mustafa Flag and Lazuli - they'll be back in Flare's chapter. Feel free to review, if the fancy takes you.  
_


	4. Eyes

**Bell Oliver.**

Bell Oliver of District Twelve was no longer in the mood to play nice. She'd been handed over to the stylist's team that morning, and they'd covered her in thin layers of liquid wax and ripped out all of her body hair. Each time they pulled off a strip, there was a tearing sound and a sudden rush of pain that tingled, all the way down to her nerves. Her skin felt raw and red, and the soothing oils they rubbed onto her legs and arms didn't seem to work. Then they'd held her down and gone to work sculpting her eyebrows. Her eyes watered, and for some reason she started sneezing. It was awful. They told her to cheer up because they weren't going to pull out nearly as much of her eyebrows as they normally would. Aurelia wanted her to have a natural, effortless look.

When the waxing and plucking was over, one of the men, with lemon yellow hair and crystals on his eyelashes, said that Bell had _sensitive_ skin. She fought the urge to take the pot of hot wax off the table and pour it down his throat.

Those thoughts - the violent, unpleasant little ideas she had - were something she'd struggled with since she was small. There'd been an accident, she knew. The details of it were lost in the fog of memory, now, but pieces of it remained. She'd slipped or fallen into one of the old mineshafts, and it had been almost a day until they'd found her. It was cold down there. Cold and very, very dark. The shadows had seemed so thick around her that she felt as though she could sleep without closing her eyes; that the darkness itself would be her eyelids. When they finally managed to get her out the next day, or maybe it was the day after, she had a feeling that she couldn't shake. That the walls of the mine would always be around her. That she'd carry a piece of that darkness wherever she went. Like a second voice in the back of her mind.

There was a physical repercussion to the whole thing as well. During the fall, Bell had struck her head and damaged her left eye. The iris had been flecked with red ever since. She supposed that this was what the stylists were talking about while they worked on her teeth. It was hard to tell over the sounds of suction and scraping. She heard the word _eyes_ quite a few times, and the word _red_. The corners of her mouth were starting to get sore from being open so long, but the stylists didn't seem to take much care when it came to her comfort.

"Open wide!" An orange-skinned woman trilled, "We need that smile to be absolutely white! White, white, white!"

And then she slathered some kind of gel all over Bell's teeth. It tasted strongly of chemicals. The smell had an oddly familiar note to it. Almost like mint. But Bell had tasted fresh mint once, and it was nothing like this stuff. Somebody wearing rubber gloves pulled her lips back, and she cringed. The feel of those powder-tasting gloves in her dry mouth sent a shuddering sensation through her. As though she'd heard nails on a chalkboard. Another pair of hands in another pair of gloves stuck some sort of clamp in her mouth, so that she couldn't close her lips over her teeth. She tried to breath through her nose, but the odour of the gel was too strong. A stylist switched on a lamp that shone with a strange blue light unlike anything Bell had ever seen before. They put a pair of sunglasses over her eyes, and aimed the lamp over her mouth. It made a soft humming noise that filled up her ears. She could feel its warmth on her stretched out mouth, and wondered what kind of person put themselves through such a torture willingly.

They manicured her hands while she stared at the ceiling, and the gel set on her teeth. She could hear them chatting away about some nonsense, and feel them filing and painting her nails. Bell wondered if she might have enjoyed the process more if she'd been able to close her mouth and sit upright. Finally, someone pulled the lamp away and shut it off. The clamp was removed from her mouth, the sunglasses were taken from her face, her teeth were rinsed off, and she was told to spit everything out - which she was more than happy to do. When she sat up, she felt dizzy and a little nauseous.

"There," Cicero, the yellow-haired man, said, "That wasn't so bad after all."

Her mouth hurt.

"I guess that's the worst of it done, right?" She asked cheerfully. But he looked away from her suddenly with a small, almost absent frown. Bell couldn't understand. They'd torn out hair, buffed her skin, scraped her teeth, filed her nails, and forced her to keep her mouth open for half an hour. What else could they possibly have left in the bag of horrors?

"Your nails look _lovely_." Cicero changed the subject clumsily.

Bell glanced down at her fingernails. They'd been rounded off and painted a glossy, vibrant crimson.

She was still staring at them when the door opened on the other side of the room, and a new woman walked in. Bell thought that she looked like a child's drawing more than a person. She had a tower of lavender hair that was decorated with strands of cloisonné beads, and was wearing a cream coloured kimono over a pink jumpsuit. Her makeup exaggerated her features in the extreme, the eyebrows were drawn on too high, the blush was too pink, and the lips were too glossy. They'd also been filled with something that puffed them up, and made her look like she was experiencing an allergic reaction. It gave Bell serious pause. The woman in charge of someone's entire wardrobe should never look so clownish. It discourages people.

Aurelia had been a stylist for three years and was still stuck with District 12. But she was going to change that. She had plans to make this little coal miner a sensation.

"Hello," Bell said and smiled, "I'm Bell Oliver. It's nice to finally meet you."

"Hmm…" Aurelia replied and walked over to her. She took Bell's jaw in one hand, and twisted the girl's head to the left and then to the right. "Is that as white as you can get them?"

"That's as white as teeth go, Aurelia." One of the women said from behind Bell's shoulder.

Aurelia then appraised the rest of her tribute's face. She felt lucky to have a girl this year with decent bone structure. A nice, heart-shaped face with a strong jaw line but a delicate chin. And the figure was practically made for clothes - long legs, slender arms. The torso was a bit short, the hips a bit wide, and the girl didn't have much in the way of a chest, but Aurelia had seen worse. Much worse.

"The brows are good. You haven't done the eyes yet?"

"Not yet. The specialist hasn't arrived." Cicero told her, glancing at the floor.

"What's happening to my eyes?" Bell asked.

"My dear girl," Aurelia said, "Your eyes are green."

There was a pause, as though that should have answered everything.

"So?"

"So? So all of the girls have green eyes this year! Green or blue or something, and I wanted you to _stand out_. And then I saw this in your photo," Aurelia gestured to Bell's left eye, "This strange speckling, and I thought it would be absolutely _gorgeous_ if we took that right to its extremes. So, I'm having the colour of your eyes changed to red!"

"What?" Bell was positive her heart had stopped. Aurelia just patted her on the hand and turned to talk to Cicero.

"I'll have the dress sent in, you'll just die when you see it. You'll absolutely die! And whatever you do, don't let that girl eat a single thing. I won't have her staining those teeth! Call me when the eyes are done!" And in a whirl of candy-colour and a flurry of blown kisses, she was back out the door.

"What did she mean? Having the colour of my eyes changed?" Bell asked hopelessly, but no one answered her. She put her hands in her lap and looked at the pristine varnish on her nails, and wondered if her eyes were going to match.

The eye specialist, who arrived about fifteen minutes later, was the first reasonable-looking person Bell had seen since arriving in the Capitol. He looked like he was in his early forties, and had skin the colour of milk chocolate. His head was shaved, and his eyebrows were a very sensible shade of black. He wore a crisp white lab coat, and smiled sombrely as he walked over to shake Bell's hand.

"Hello, sweetheart," He said warmly, "My name's Dr. Thoris. How are you today?"

Bell looked at the specialist's face and noticed that his eyes were a shade of purple so bright, they practically glowed. He met her gaze with a steady smile.

"Have you ever had any eye procedures done before?"

"No, sir." Bell said softly, trying not to stare.

"Well, as you can see, they don't kill you." Thoris replied, and the stylists all chuckled a little. He placed his case on the silver table that had held the dental instruments, and had been cleared off and wiped down since. He snapped it open, revealing a well organized set of equipment. Nothing looked particularly surgical, and Bell found herself relieved.

"Is this going to be permanent?" She asked. Though she quietly told herself that it wouldn't matter what colour her eyes were if she died in the arena.

"No, but the removal procedure is extremely painful. Better just to have the colour tweaked." He turned to Cicero, "Do you have the binder ready to go?"

"We followed your instructions to the letter, doctor."

Thoris pulled up one of the manicurist's chairs and adjusted Bell's seat so that she was upright and facing him. He took a small clear box from his case. Inside were two round compartments, and in each compartment was a single bright red lens.

"I've never used this colour before. It's called Ruby No.3 - kind of pretty, I guess." He took a pair of pointed tweezers from a little silver package designed to keep them sterile, and lifted one of the lenses from the case. "Tilt your head back."

He placed the lens over her right iris, and held her eyes open with one hand as he adjusted its placement with his finger. When he was pleased with the right one, he put the left one in the same way. It was strange, even when he pulled his hands away, it still felt like something was touching her eyeball. The lens was light, but she could still feel its edges. She blinked uncontrollably, and tears welled up in the bottoms of her eyes. She went to wipe them away, and Thoris gently stopped her hand.

"Keep blinking. The tears help to smooth out the edges and keep the lens in place." He explained, and took a small bottle with a thin nozzle as narrow as a blade of grass. When he was satisfied that Bell had blinked enough, he tilted her head back again and sprayed a watery solution over each lens, very carefully. It wasn't so bad, all things considered.

"Alright," Thoris smiled, "Time for the tape."

"Tape?" Bell tried to look into the case from where she was sitting, but she couldn't see anything that looked like tape. Or what see recognized as tape, anyway.

"Get the saline ready," Thoris told Cicero, before turning to Bell, "I'm going to tape your eyes open, and they'll get quite dry. So your friend here is going to help keep them moist. Hold still, please."

The tape - four pieces of plastic with an extremely sticky glue on one side - was strangely thick, and seemed to weight Bell's skin down. Thoris had opened her eyes wide enough for him to see the whole circle of her iris, and she found the lights in the room almost unbearable. And she couldn't blink. She felt the muscles around her eyelids move, and her eyelashes flutter. But she could not blink. Cicero hovered over her and put two little drops of saline in each eye; and while that soothed her slightly, it seemed to make her frustration even greater.

Thoris directed Bell to lie back in the chair, and he lowered it until she lay completely flat. The lights in the room were dimmed, and a pair of stylists wheeled over a large, pristinely white machine and fit it over the head of Bell's chair. It looked like a set of stairs, with a pair of goggles on the top and a slot cut out for the patient's head. Next to the goggles were a pair of sensor pads, about five inches across. Thoris positioned himself on the lowest step, so that he fitted his eyes into the goggles, and flicked a switch. A camera showed him a magnified view of Bell's irises, and the coloured lenses fit them flawlessly. Not a sliver of the lovely natural green remained. He flipped another switch, and a tiny blue dot shone down onto one of Bell's eyes. This was the indication of where the binder would begin. Using a pen-like stylus, he repositioned the dot.

"Somebody should hold her hands," He instructed the room at large, "Well see how it goes, but we might have to restrain her to complete the procedure if she becomes hysterical. More saline, please."

Cicero's hand reached under the edge of the machine, and he put more drops into Bell's eyes. It was the last thing she saw before the laser started.

The dress Aurelia had designed arrived in the middle of the procedure. The dressmakers delivering it were told to wait outside, since the amount in the light had to be strictly regulated, or Bell could go blind. They stood in the hallway, the dress the only article of clothing on an entire rack. It was covered in a gray zipped bag, to protect it from prying or curious eyes. The screaming was unsettling, but the dressmakers did their best to ignore it, and soon enough it stopped.

By the time the dress was allowed to be brought in, Bell was huddled in a chair in the sitting room, trying desperately hard to stop shaking. She felt for the first time like she could not win the Games. She was afraid now. Afraid that she wasn't strong enough, that a competitive nature didn't mean a competitive edge. Her eyes felt raw and tired, and she couldn't keep them open for very long. She wanted to leave all of it. To go home to her friends, to her own district. To her own bed. She wanted to sleep. What possible advantage could she have over the other tributes, if she could barely get through a beauty routine?

She almost didn't hear Aurelia when she came in.

"All finished?" The stylist asked boisterously.

Bell turned to look at her slowly. If she redirected her gaze too fast, she became nauseous. Aurelia looked at the girl's new eyes, and could help but gasp. They were very striking.

"Perfect!" Aurelia clapped, "I really am _too_ good. They'll never forget this! Why, I might even get District Five next year!"

Bell couldn't bring herself to say anything. She just stared at the stylist and tilted her head to one side, very gently. Aurelia was simply thrilled at how unsettling her tribute's mannerisms now seemed. The whole thing was certain to cause a sensation.

"Well! Let's get you ready for your chariot ride, shall we?"

The rest of the afternoon seemed to go by very quietly. Bell didn't speak, she just let the stylists go about their work with her hair, and her makeup. She didn't complain when they stripped her naked and covered her in body paint, and she barely noticed the dress as they took her hands and helped her step into it. But as she stood and looked at herself in the full-length mirror, while Aurelia fussed over tiny details, Bell felt pleased. Strangely satisfied, as though the whole day had been worth it. The dress was lovely. A delicate pattern of small red and purple garnets curved around the midnight black bodice, and led into an enormous skirt that billowed out at her hips and was gathered in tiny pick-ups that lent the whole gown the appearance of a piece of coal. Aurelia had chosen the garnets to reflect District Twelve's financial position - she viewed the garnet as a poor cousin to a ruby or sapphire. The colour of the dress blended seamlessly into the black body paint that Bell had been covered in, from head to toe. It gave her the effect of being nude, save for the stones and the sweep of the skirt. Her hair had been pulled back into an elegantly intricate chignon, and powdered with a thick black dust.

Bell stared at the unearthly thing in the mirror - with her ghastly red eyes, and her skin the colour of coal - and she smiled that glittering white smile. Because she knew now who she was. And she knew what she had that the other tributes did not. She could win these Games. She _would _win these games.

She was the girl with the blood red eyes.

She was the darkness from the pit of the mines.

* * *

_A/N: Ah, the stylist chapter..._

_I was really nervous about this one, for some reason, so if you could drop me a review and let me know what you thought, that would be great. Even if it's a criticism or a complaint. _


	5. Breakfast

**Flare Heartforth**

Since arriving in the Capitol three days before, Flare Heartforth had grown accustomed to an unusual morning routine. First, she groggily rolled herself out of bed and shuffled her way over to the shower. She liked the water hot enough that the whole room filled up with thick steam, and she always made certain to indulge herself with a great big lather of delicious smelling pink shampoo. By the time she was finished, the Avox would have laid out the clothing selected by Flare's stylist, usually something easy to move in, but with a shimmering or glittery quality to the fabric. She would quickly dress herself and arrange her hair. The room they'd given her had an interesting view of a nearby park, and she sometimes lingered to look at the sights. It seemed strange that a place like the Capitol could exist in the same world as the twelve districts. Even her own District One, which was largely known to be the wealthiest and widely believed to be an absolute paradise to live in, was vastly different than the bustling metropolis she found herself in.

Once she'd woken up a little, Flare would head out to breakfast. It was always the same. She would start to hear the muffled shouting in the hallway, and it would continue on as she sat down at the table with Royal. The dining room had lovely large windows, beautifully crafted furniture, and an elaborate table setting. There were forks for everything, and usually three or more plates, at breakfast there was always a water glass and a juice glass waiting for her, and at dinner there were champagne flutes. It adjoined a sitting room that was equally ornate and twice as nice to look at. Except that Flare rarely got to see it. For the most part, the door that connected the two rooms was closed and locked, so that Mustafa Flag and Lazuli Dorok could argue loudly with one another in private.

Flare knew what they were fighting about, of course.

Mustafa Flag was a showman by nature, and his sole purpose was to entertain the audience who watched the Hunger Games. As escort, he was responsible for presenting the tributes in his charge with the customs of the Capitol. Flag also seemed involved in the general presentation of his two charges, and he clearly felt that an underdog story would be more popular. Flare didn't think highly of the man or his ideas. Lazuli, on the other hand, was an experienced combatant. Most winners had around four or five kills on their records, but she had taken sixteen lives the year she won the games. And she seemed to prefer female tributes on principle, which was very convenient for her. Flare would much rather have the monopoly on survival techniques and training, especially if Royal wound up with more sponsors.

Flare sat down across from her fellow tribute without so much as a glance in his direction. She wanted nothing whatsoever to do with him, and knew that he wanted nothing whatsoever to do with her. It was a mutual disdain that was oddly agreeable to her. Simple and quiet, where the argument in the other room seemed uncommonly loud, and punctuated abruptly by a shattering crash as something smashed against the wall and broke into a million pieces. Flare raised her eyebrows in surprise, and watched as the door flew open and Flag stormed into the room, sporting a small bleeding cut on the side of his face.

Loud and heated arguments were something she had plenty of familiarity with. Her uncle liked to argue when he was drunk, which was pretty much all the time. Sometimes he fought with the neighbours, sometimes with Flare, or sometimes with the empty bottle in his hand. In some twisted way, the sounds of crashing and fighting made their floor of the Training Center feel more like home. Uncle Gleam had been her guardian for almost as long as she could remember. He was a sad excuse for a human being, with bloodshot eyes, stale smelling clothes and something nasty to say about everyone. Except his dead wife, who - as far as Flare could tell - had been a dizzy idiot who married too young. Gleam had always been bitter and neglectful of his niece, curtly informing her of the accident that had killed her parents and never answering any of her questions. She might have thought that the bastard was lying to her, but lying consistently took a keen mind. And a keen mind was something Uncle Gleam certainly did not have. Sometimes he ranted and raved for what seemed like days. Sometimes he just sat quietly in a corner of the room, drinking and staring off into space. Sometimes he called her by her dead mother's name.

Flare hated the things that reminded her of home.

"You're insane!" Flag shouted over his shoulder as he strode into the dining room, snapping her out of her trance. He grabbed a cup off of the table, poured some coffee into it, and then motioned for Royal to follow him. The boy stood up, stuffed one last forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth, and shadowed Flag out of the room.

"Oh! Aren't you staying for breakfast, Mustafa?" Lazuli called after them, slumping into her chair and grabbing a pink and yellow apple from one of the bowls of fruit. She smirked and bit into it as the door slammed across the room by way of response. Her painted lips stayed curled in malicious glee as she chewed, slow and deliberate, manicured hands suspending the bitten apple between them.

In as much as Flare could bring herself to like anyone, she was starting to like Lazuli. The woman wasn't by nature a particularly likable person; but she was sharp and venomous, and highly entertaining to watch. Flare found she preferred people who didn't waste time trying to convince people how trustworthy they were. The fact of the matter was that people - good, bad, or in between - were all just playing the role that they thought suited them the most. In places like the Games, or the grimy rooms of a bar, everyone showed their true colours as the artfully self-serving creatures that they were.

"So," she said with mock cheerfulness, selecting something for herself from the fruit bowl in an unconscious mirror of her mentor's gesture, "How has your morning been?"

"That guy thinks he's so terrific, but he's not," Lazuli scoffed, examining the bite she had taken out of her apple with disinterest, "If somebody could promise me that I wouldn't be caught, I'd kill him."

"Looks like you tried it anyway a few minutes ago." Flare nodded at the pile of glass shards on the carpet in the sitting room. It looked like it might have been a vase once. And not a very small one.

"That was nothing. He deserved more." Lazuli shrugged, and tossed the rest of her apple onto her empty plate with a clatter, "Forget about him. Let's talk about your training strategy."

"I thought I was supposed to stick with improving my targeting, to try and advance my final score." That was what Flare had been told to do the previous morning, and so she'd spent her entire first day of training at the knife station. She found that she preferred the slightly curved, bone handles of the hunting knives, despite their drawbacks. If she could get comfortable enough with one, it would be an excellent benefit to her once inside the arena. Only if she could get one out of the cornucopia, though.

It didn't seem impossible. In fact, she was pretty confident that she could work out a way to corner most of the supplies, once she put her mind to it. And if she made it abundantly clear to Lazuli that she needed specific types of knives, then that was what her first wave of sponsorship income would go towards. But that meant that she'd have to show both the sponsors and the Gamemakers what she was capable of, so that they would see her need for knives as justified.

That's why it was unfortunate that she hadn't done as well in training the day before as she had hoped. Her aim was as solid as ever, but she'd never had much in the way of distance. On top of that, the hunting knives were heavier than what she was used to, and reduced that radius even further. It was smart to try and increase her abilities with ranged weapons, to get her physically further away from her kills, but she had felt somewhat limited by the schedule. She was also frustrated with how long it took her to learn things. Most everyone told her she was a quick study, but they were judging her by their standards. She had her own way of measuring skill.

"I'm shaking things up. Mustafa's planning on you perfecting a single skill and out-scoring his golden boy with the Gamemakers, but he doesn't want you to win."

"That doesn't make sense," Flare tilted her head to one side, "If I score higher than Royal, won't that take away his sponsors?"

"Some of them, probably," Lazuli nodded, "But it'll get him more support from outside our district. The sympathetic types who fall for his sob story will think he needs the extra help. Which is exactly what Mustafa wants. But me? I know you're the real winner. I know that you _deserve_ this."

Flare noticed a wild, almost feral look in her mentor's eyes. She remembered the story Lazuli had told her on the train, about when she had won the Hunger Games at the uncommon age of thirteen. It was a very thorough and methodical telling, like someone describing a scientific procedure. She'd talked about her strategy, the layout of the arena, the way she had composed each death. The thrill of the final kill. Flare wondered if Mustafa wasn't wrong - maybe Lazuli really was insane.

Not that it mattered very much. Insane or not, there wasn't any denying the fact that Lazuli shone like a diamond when it came to killing, and her discord with Mustafa meant that she wanted Flare to win. As long as her advice was sound, for all Flare cared, she could spend her free time sitting on a throne of skulls and drinking the blood of the slain. Just as long as she did her job. Just as long as she told her tribute how to win.

As if she could read the girl's mind, Lazuli's smirk broadened.

"Hand-to-hand is your biggest advantage in the arena. It's unexpected because of your size, and nobody will see it coming since you haven't been training it. You can spar with me in the evenings to keep sharp, but we have to be careful not to let the boys catch on. What you _really _need to work on is getting close to people."

"You mean stealth training?"

"Yes," Lazuli's eyes glittered with enthusiasm, "But I also mean getting the others to trust you. You need to form an alliance with the tributes who's skills compliment yours, and who can do the things that you can't do by yourself. There are two ways to stab someone in the back; you can sneak up on them, or you can ask them to turn around."

Flare thought about her fellow tributes. Who had stood out to her, and who seemed dangerous. The ones that didn't impress her had already faded from her memory, and from the ones that had made an impression, she began to consider her options. She knew she wanted at least one other tribute with Career training on her side. Royal was off the list, for obvious reasons, which left the tributes from District Two and District Four. The girl from Two, Klara, was out of the question. She was pretty handy with a knife herself but probably didn't have Flare's skill with direct combat to back it up. Seemed kind of redundant to ally with her. Her male counterpart was hardly a better match; he was clumsy brute force and little more. Not a brain cell in his beefy head. Both of the tributes from Four seemed smart, though. Kept to themselves and seemed to get along. Flare wouldn't be surprised if they already had some kind of alliance in the works. Come to think of it, she was pretty sure she'd seen them talking quietly to a few people. The beauty queen from District Three, and the absurdly tall boy from Five or Six - Flare couldn't remember.

That was probably her best bet. Work her way into the good graces of the Fours, and try to help them round off the alliance with other key players. Then, as the game progressed… well, Lazuli had just said it, hadn't she? There were two ways to stab somebody in the back.

Why not use both?

* * *

_A/N: And that's the end of chapter five. Special thanks to everyone who left a review at the end of the last chapter, it really gave me an extra boost of energy. You guys are the best._


	6. Dart

**Fawn Doreen**

On the second day of training, Fawn Doreen rode the elevator to the basement levels of the Center all by herself. That morning, Eddison - the boy who had come with her from District Nine - had completely lost his mind. Fawn guessed that maybe he finally figured out that they were all going to die. As in never coming back. As in the eternal slumber. As in shaking hands with the man at the crossroads and seeing what was on the other side. He'd seemed so nonchalant since the reaping, that Fawn had wondered if he really understood why they were there. It was almost a relief to wake up to the sounds of him loudly demanding to go home. She was worried that he wouldn't come to his senses before the cornucopia, and he'd just stand there numbly. Waiting for somebody to throw a tomahawk through his skull.

Fawn shuddered a little as she pictured it, the way the wooden handle would arc through the air, the soft _thud_ as the blade smacked into his forehead and split it open like a ripe melon. Sometimes her daydreams took wrong turns.

Still, thinking about Crazy Eddie going crazy was better than thinking about anything else that had been on her mind. Like what she had overheard her mentor saying about how low her chances of survival were, or how hard it had been to say goodbye to her parents, knowing that she might never come back. Her parents. She couldn't help but wonder what they were going through just then. They probably knew she wasn't coming home. Everyone knew. All she had in the way of skills were her cheerful disposition and the fact that she was small enough to hide in most cupboards and behind doorways. But maybe that would impress the Gamemakers, and they'd give her a ten or something, and her parents would cheer up because she had a chance.

Fawn's mother and father had both worked at the power stations; her mother as an apprentice plant operator at one of the smaller stations, and her father as an engineering consultant. Now she wished she'd asked them about their work, and picked up some technological knowledge. Anything that might have come in handy. But most of the time she spent with her parents had been all about telling jokes, or sitting at the kitchen table while her mother taught her how to fold a square of paper into the shape of a bird or a frog. Could the world have ever really seemed so simple and so safe to her? It felt like a million years ago, even if it had only been less than a week. The reaping had never really frightened her, because somehow her family had managed to disconnect themselves from the possibility of Fawn's name being called. Losing children, watching them fight and die in the Games, had seemed like the sort of thing that happened to other people. Not them.

The elevator doors opened to the basement level, and the small girl took a big sigh and stepped out. Normally, she'd have her escort with her, but everyone was still upstairs trying to calm Crazy Eddie down. Fawn's mentor had told her to just go ahead to training and keep working on her survival skills. The strategy she'd been instructed to use for the Games was simple: don't kill anybody; hide; find food; wait for everyone else to die. The third part was what she needed to figure out how to do, so she'd been spending most of the last two days at the trapping station. That morning, she decided she was going to try and learn about some kind of weapon. Something light, that she could carry around easily and use from far away. Because, even if she hid as best she could, there was bound to be someone among the twenty-three other tributes who could find her. If that happened, she didn't want to be defenceless. Maybe everybody in the Capitol had written her off, but Fawn Doreen wasn't going to go down without a fight.

She looked around the training rooms. It was eleven o'clock, but not everyone had arrived yet; those that _were_ there had begun to practice already. The girl from District Eight was talking to the trapping expert that Fawn had monopolized the day before, and there was a boy with curly blond hair who was doing his best to hold a bow straight at the archery station. He wasn't succeeding. Two or three people were crowded around what looked like a spontaneous lecture on edible plants, and a handful of the largest boys had taken over the weights section.

Fawn looked around for an idea of where to go. Archery didn't seem too appealing, since she'd heard somewhere that it required incredible strength in the muscles of the back. It probably took a long time to get good at the kind of a skill. On the same table as the bows and arrows was an arrangement of slingshots; but unless she managed to find a bunch of really pointy, poison-covered rocks in the arena, she couldn't see how that was going to do her any good.

The spears caught her eye, but she wasn't at all sure why. The day before, the boy from District Four had effortlessly annihilated all of the practice dummies by piercing them through the heads. He'd just been showing off, though. And the girl from his district told him off for it. But neither of them were there yet, and the station was empty.

Fawn took a deep breath and made her way over.

The instructor smiled and greeted her as she looked over the array of weapons. Some were pikes that were taller than she was, and some were halberds with small axe blades on either side of the spearhead, or war scythes with heavy ebony handles. There were spears with morning star tips, which meant that instead of a sharp point like an arrowhead, the weapon ended with a metal sphere covered in spikes - like somebody had attached a mace to a long stick. On the table were brightly feathered darts of various sizes, fanned in a circle around the different kinds of blowguns that could use them.

"I need something light, and easy for me to use. I don't want it to be difficult to carry around, and it can't make a lot of noise. Got anything like that, mister?" She asked the instructor.

The instructor thought about her criteria for a minute or two. Normally, he got requests for the heaviest and deadliest things in his arsenal, whether or not they were practical. The girl had surprised him a bit. When she was looking at the table, she'd seemed so faraway and almost unfocused. He took in how small she was, estimated her weight and her strength, and came up with an answer.

"I think a dart would be best." He said with a nod.

"Oh." Fawn couldn't help but sound disappointed, as she looked once more at the blowguns.

"Not that kind," The instructor explained, "These."

He selected two small javelins from his selection of throwing spears. Both were thinner and more flexible than the other weapons their size, and weighted at the end with a lead tip. A little like over-sized arrows, but without the wide, triangular base. The darts had a smooth silhouette, and didn't look very dangerous at all. But then the instructor showed her how to position her arm for an optimum throw, explained the physics of the dart itself, and let her take aim at a practice dummy.

The dart seemed to pierce through the air at an incredible speed, sailing with an almost elegant arc. It made a soft tearing noise as it imbedded itself in the stuffing of the dummy's crotch. Fawn face went as red as a tomato, and she heard a stifled laugh come from behind her.

She turned around and saw one of the boys, the one with ginger hair, trying his damnedest not to crack up.

"Well, if you wind up like that dummy in the arena, you won't think it's all that funny!" Fawn replied, trying to stay indignant, but knowing that her eyes were smiling now.

"I guess not." The boy smirked, and grabbed a javelin that seemed a little too tall for him. He rolled it over in his hands a few times, approached the edge of the practice mat and took aim.

It clattered to the floor about a foot and a half shy of his target.

"That was really something," Fawn nodded, "That really showed me."

"Aw, bite me. I've never thrown one of these before." The boy grumbled, and then his face fell into an expression of concern. He'd probably just realized that he was hindering his mystique of danger by admitting to things like that. He cleared his throat and moved on to another station, didn't say anything else, and made sure to keep his eyes down as he passed by Fawn.

She kept practicing with her darts, of which she preferred the slightly shorter one with the blue band painted on it. But in the back of her mind, she couldn't help but feel bad for the boy whose spear had missed. When she saw him sitting by himself at the lunch tables, she sat down next to him without so much as a second thought.

"I'm sorry I was so rude to you this morning," She chirped brightly, "I guess I was in a bad mood. My day didn't start out so good, and I've been really nervous about my chances in the Games. You're from District One, right? What's your name? My name's Fawn. It's nice to meet you."

The boy stared at her with wide eyes, his hand frozen with a sandwich half in his mouth. He finished his bite, swallowed and looked at Fawn sternly.

"You know we're not here to make friends, right little girl?" He said carefully, glancing around the room like he was expecting to someone to announce that a joke was being played on him.

"Well, obviously. We're here to kill each other, because the Capitol wants to make a point about the futility of rebellions, but one of us will probably win. I promise not to kill you," Fawn chattered on, "I don't want to kill anybody. Maybe I won't have to! Maybe they'll cancel this year's Hunger Games and we'll all be able to go home tomorrow! What did you say your name was?"

"Royal." The boy from District One said slowly, as though he were talking to a lunatic.

"Royal, huh? That sounds like a girl's name to me. But all the names from District One sound like they're for girls. I think I'll call you Roy - you don't mind if I call you Roy, do you?"

"My Dad calls me Roy." He answered hesitantly.

"Then I guess it's alright!" Fawn smiled brightly, "You must miss your dad like crazy, huh? I miss mine. He's a great guy. A little goofy, but everybody seems to like him. I bet you'd like him."

Roy stiffened, and his expression changed sharply. He looked like somebody had dropped an ice cube down the back of his shirt.

"Did I say something wrong? I'm sorry, Roy."

"Look," He said in low tones, leaning over the table, "You shouldn't talk to people like this. First of all, how much I miss the people back home is none of your damn business. You know why? Because I have to kill you, or you have to kill me in order for either of us to go home to our dads. Understand? Second of all, you're damn lucky you decided to talk _my_ ear off, instead of somebody dangerous. Nobody in this room can be your friend, because we're all enemies."

Fawn blinked at him a couple of times, and then went back to talking.

"This sandwich is pretty good. I don't like the stew they make for us, because I don't like rich sauces and it turns out that I'm not all that fond of lamb. I never had lamb before I came here. What kind of animals do you think are in the arena? I hope its not just rabbits. I think I could kill a person if I had to, but I don't think I could kill a rabbit. Even if I was really, really hungry. Bunnies are just too cute. Do you think you could kill a rabbit?"

"Yes." Roy answered, exasperated but no longer able to fight the fact that she was going to talk him, and he was going to answer her.

"Good! You'll be in charge of food!"

* * *

_A/N: Looks like we've got another alliance on our hands! What do you think? Is Fawn going to be safe with Royal, or is it all going to end in tragedy?_


	7. Judgement

**Aydiano Sono**

When it was time to score the tributes from District Seven, the Gamemakers always began to get a little disinterested. Sometimes, the fighters from the lumber district showed great promise and could do truly impressive and slightly horrific things. Sometimes they did bird-calls. And after the Sevens were finished, it was guaranteed to get dull. It was very rare for the lower districts to produce any talents of substance. Prisca Steeple spared a listless glance to her notes regarding the tributes who had already displayed their skills. A few stood out, both as potentially aggressive fighters and as entertaining personalities, but she was worried that the year might prove a little dull.

Ostensibly, the scores they gave out indicated skill level and likelihood of survival. But there was much more to it than that. The Gamemakers, as well as the mentors and the escorts and - unwittingly - the tributes themselves, were responsible for creating a show. For telling a story full of tragedy and successes, and creating an outcome that would please audiences in the Capitol, and continue to keep the twelve districts under thumb. Low scores weren't just for those who had little skill for killing or thriving in harsh conditions; they were for the tributes that the Gamemakers wanted ignored. The ones that were not only likely to die in the Cornucopia, but who would be uninteresting even if they survived longer. The mid-level scores were for those who were expected to do well enough to merit some screen time, but didn't have enough pull to be truly memorable. The highest scores were for the tributes that the Gamemakers wanted people to think about, regardless of how long they lasted.

There were other considerations, as well. Tributes who had already begun to gather a large number of sponsors were more likely to get high scores, so the audience wouldn't be surprised at how well they did. And to prevent people from realizing how vital the sponsorship gifts were to the victors. Even a twelve year-old boy who was blind in one eye and came from somewhere ghastly, like District Ten, could easily win with enough wits in his head and a surplus of sponsors. Each tribute had been discussed at length during a morning conference, before the trials even began. Many of them had been given their score before they even set foot in the gymnasium.

A chime rang to let everyone know that the next tribute was entering the room.

Aydiano Sono was whistling as he walked over to the wood-crafting station that contained the equipment necessary to build fires, put together a small fortification, and show general ability with carving and similar minor, but useful skills. It wasn't a cocky whistle, or the whistle of someone overly cheerful in the face of danger. In fact, it was quite a sombre song. But there was the aura of a smile about him, which made him seem very affable to the Gamemakers.

He knew what he was after, and moved without hesitation towards it. A wooden-handled forest axe. It had been placed amongst the tools instead of the weapons, which were specially crafted battle axes and tomahawks that he would have little use for. There were three lengths of axe to choose from - the smallest was the variety that most of the children from lumber families in District Seven began learning on. It was easy to carry around, and the handle was slim enough for a small hand to hold comfortably. But it couldn't handle splitting large logs, and though you could definitely kill someone with it, it would be a labour-intensive and messy job. Aydiano didn't like that he was being forced to consider these things, but he knew that if he _didn't_ consider them, he'd simply die. The limbing axe was an excellent medium size, and could be carried around comfortably, with or without the aid of a pack. It was better than the small one, since a longer handle ensured less chance of injury. If Aydiano swung a small axe and missed, in the heat of conflict, he could very well slice his shins open. Or worse, his stomach. Still, the medium axe didn't have a thick enough blade to topple a decent sized tree, and its safety advantage was a little deceptive. People felt more comfortable with a limbing axe, and their swings often became reckless. The advantage of the large felling axe was that it was definitely the safest choice, in terms of preventing self-injury. Most people unfamiliar with the tool considered the opposite to be true, though Aydiano didn't know how they could possibly be under that impression. But the size and weight of the felling made it incredibly impractical. Carrying something that big, though it was only five pounds, would tire him out quickly; and the length of the handle made it difficult to store it in a pack, so he'd be forced to hold it in his hand at almost all times. Such drawbacks would make him vulnerable.

He picked up the limbing axe, tightening and loosening his grip until he got a good feel for the handle. He breathed in deeply, and thought of home. The days when the taught, crisp wind rustled the tops of the trees so that the shadows which fell on the sunlit dirt seemed to dance. The unforgettable smells of wet earth, dark and rich after a rainfall. The vivid greens of the conifer trees, and the heavy perfume of their sap. There was a time when Aydiano had little concern for the marvels of nature, and the loveliness of his hometown. He often wondered if there was more to life if you lived in another place. If people in District Two enjoyed their lives more because of the location in they lived it in.

Once, when he was ten or eleven, he'd been out on the very edge of the woods; maybe even beyond the boundaries. It was always so hard to tell where you were when the trees grew so close together. Something had glinted in the sunlight and caught his eye. It was a small golden bracelet, half-buried by fallen twigs on the forest floor. He'd picked it up, and used his shirt tails to wipe off the moist dirt that clung to it. It wasn't like anything he'd ever seen before. Just a thin plate of metal, moulded into a circle that didn't quite close. On the inside was an inscription that read: _Energetics Co. District Nine_.

Aydiano had seen images of the other districts on television, when they showed them preparing for the reaping every year. He'd never thought much about District Nine, with its tall smoke stacks and square grey buildings. There was something so promising about how industrial it all looked, not like the log cabin houses and dirt roads of his own district. He wondered what it would be like to live in a place where electricity was practically free to all, twenty-four hours a day. Was life easier for them? Did they wake up every day with fewer cares? He had so many dreams, of leaving his life behind and forging a new identity for himself. It was impossible not to wonder.

He'd wanted so badly to leave District Seven. Aydiano could remember having felt that way his whole life - even as part of him knew that he must have been born there for a reason. But once he was in the Capitol, all he could think about was going back. All he could think about was the beauty he'd ignored. The small details, that had once seemed so mundane to him, now took over his dreams and filled his waking thoughts. He was homesick down to his very core, and he was terrified that he wouldn't live to see his family again.

The first thing he did was expertly split several logs and build a fire, with a minimum of smoke and reflected light. While the fire burned quietly, he constructed a basic shelter out of large pieces of wood, and he carved several small stakes - either for use in animal traps or as makeshift weapons. He explained the basic principles of constructing a snare out of a sapling, though he didn't have one handy for a demonstration. Then he headed over to the practice dummies.

He had to be careful, he knew. The dummies often had inconsistent stuffing that made judging the force to put in his swing a tricky proposition. Too much and he'd over-balance himself and risk injury. Too little, and his demonstration wouldn't be very impressive at all.

The manoeuvres he used would have to be rapid, precise, and have a certain flourish and keenness about them. Plenty of the combatants from previous years had proven to be quite lethal with axes. They were all much flashier than Aydiano, and most of them had been pretty popular with sponsors. He knew he had to stand out. He'd watched the games carefully enough to determine that the scores were as much about winning over the Capitol as about any skill or talent. Every year, he paid attention to the Hunger Games. Not necessarily because he worried about whether or not he might compete, but because he had always been curious about the event itself. Why did people wish to watch one another suffer? Why did they punish each other for generation after generation, delighting in the bloodshed, seeking vengeance for crimes that had been committed long before all but the oldest of them were born?

Everything had a reason, Aydiano believed. Fires started in the wood to clear out the dead growth and make way for the new. When he felled a tree he planted another in its place, so that there would always be more wood to cut down. When a storm raged it cleared the air and knocked down the weaker trees, which made homes for the moss and the tiny creatures that lived in the undergrowth - creatures which Aydiano's father often caught in his snares and brought home for meat. But the Games were nothing more than a display of extravagance. The Capitol spent an extensive amount time and energy on them, they gave the tributes luxuries before they sent them to their deaths, dressed them up in finery and devoted their time to watching them struggle and fight to survive.

What for, he wondered? How did they gain by it? He didn't see how the Games would prevent another rebellion, and he didn't understand why they were such a spectacle even if they could. But he _knew _there had to be a reason for it.

Taking a deep breath, he chased off his thoughts and made a quick mental checklist of what he wanted to do. How exactly he'd get his optimal score.

Then, he began.

The Gamemakers watched with great interest as the boy moved much more quickly than they expected. He severed both of the arms off the first dummy, handily decapitated the second, slit open the chest of a third, and turned sharply towards the archery targets. He threw the axe across the room, so that it spun handle over blade and landed directly in the bull's-eye of the second smallest target.

Aydiano tried not to look too impressed with himself. He barely succeeded.

It had been a risky tactic, throwing the axe. Forest axes of any variety - even hatchets - were not designed to become airborne. And he'd never thrown anything at a target before. It was an instance of pure luck; one he knew that he couldn't duplicate even if he tried. He certainly wouldn't do anything that reckless in the actual arena. He'd been terrified he was going to cut his hand off as the axe left his grip, the blade tumbling far too close to his fingertips for his taste. He made a promise to himself to thank some higher power before he went to sleep that night.

"Most interesting, tribute," Prisca said, "You may leave."

"Thank you." Aydiano said, a little out of breath.

As he walked out of the gymnasium, he hoped that he had done enough.

* * *

_A/N: I love axes. They are truly an underrated weapon of awesomeness. If anybody is working on tributes for other SYOCs, truly consider giving them a weapon that can also be used as a tool. Axes and knives are the obvious ones; but consider the noble hammer, or even farming implements like sickles or pitchforks. In fact, the two-pronged "military fork" is quite a formidable weapon, and a good choice for tributes hailing from Districts Ten and Eleven. Because anything that can pull double-duty gives them an extra advantage if they manage to get a hold of one in the arena, and it helps fill out their background by implying a certain kind of job or apprenticeship._

_Feel free to tell me how crazy I am in a colourful review!  
_


	8. Champagne

**Jemma Hill**

The unapologetic luxury of the Capitol suited Jemma Hill. She reclined in a suede covered chez lounge, in a pink satin dressing gown, with a magnum of a drink called _champagne_ in her hand. The taste of the golden, sparkling wine had displeased her at first. It seemed so light and elegant; she wasn't expecting it to have a tart or vinegary quality. But she'd adjusted to it quickly, and was learning to enjoy the subtler notes of its flavour. And she couldn't resist how she looked when she was holding the glass. It somehow seemed to make her fingers seem more slender, to bring out every colour and shine in her outfit as though the two things were meant to go together.

She glanced at her reflection in the long mirrors that panelled one of the walls of the sitting room, and she liked what she saw. A stunningly gorgeous girl, with vivid eyes and glossy chestnut curls, with skin that looked as soft as a rose petal and the kind of body that made other girls and older women sick with envy. Since her stylists had gone to work on her, Jemma had become the ideal type for television. They seemed to have scrubbed the grit of District Three off every inch of her. She couldn't stand how forgettable she must've looked, only a handful of days before. It was ridiculous how proud she'd been of such cheap clothes, and so little acclaim. Since becoming a tribute in the Hunger Games, she had begun getting all the things that she'd always deserved. And when she won, she thought to herself, she'd have even more. She might even take up permanent residence in the Capitol, if it was possible.

She sipped her champagne and smiled. This was the kind of life that was truly worthy of her.

"There she is!" Orlha, Jemma's stylist, said cheerfully, as she walked into the sitting room. Orlha was no stranger to self-modification. Her skin had been dyed a pale blue, and her cobalt hair was almost long enough to touch the floor. On her cheeks were tattooed swirls, three or four shades darker than her skin, which gave her the illusion of a strange perpetual blushing.

She had been absolutely thrilled when Jemma had been reaped. The girls from District Three were usually miserable little waifs, with terror in their eyes and frowns on their un-pretty faces. The last few years, Orlha had taken on the male tributes, simply to stop herself from getting her hopes too high. All stylists had the fantasy of taking a mousy little thing from one of the lower districts and turning them into a glamorously unforgettable creature. So when she saw Jemma on television for the first time, she knew she had to dress her.

"How did you do with the Gamemakers?" Orlha asked, as the rest of the district team filed in behind her. They were all going to watch the scoring announcements together.

There was the male tribute, whom Jemma largely ignored. She hadn't even bothered to learn his name. He was still wearing his training clothes, with the number three pinned on his back. Jemma smiled sweetly at him when he sat down on the sofa across the room. He gave her a dopey grin in return, and looked away. Moron. His stylist wasn't coming to the little party, someone had mentioned that afternoon; something to do with an allergic reaction or something. Their escort, who was a nervous woman new to working for the Games sat down quietly beside him, and poured herself a glass of Jemma's champagne. Then she downed it all in one big gulp. Something was clearly bothering the woman, though nobody seemed to care what. Jemma certainly didn't. Lastly, the two mentors took their seats. Viatrix and Vosburg. Viatrix was a mousey woman in her twenties who seemed to twitch at every sound. It really was impossible to see how she'd won the Games to begin with; and Jemma found Vosburg, her mentor, to be absolutely vile. He was like a dirty splotch on the colour and loveliness of the Capitol. He always wore black or brown, and somehow didn't manage to make it look chic _at all_. His craggy face was pointed and tired, and his weathered hands with their long fingers and square joints reminded her of the men who worked at the factories back home. He was thoroughly a man of his district, and Jemma couldn't stand how he brought that unrefined lifestyle into the room with him.

Besides which, he wasn't even a very good mentor. He barely spoke to her, and seemed constantly subdued and distracted. This was all about Jemma. These were her games, and she was ready to win. Everyone had to help her, to do the things she wanted and show her the secrets of success. But he just couldn't get over himself long enough to actually be useful. She couldn't believe how selfish the man was.

"I tried my best! I hope I did well enough for a good score!" Jemma said as sweetly as she could, while Orlha switched on the television and sat in the chair next to her.

"Well I'm sure you got at least an eight!" The stylist smiled encouragingly as the program started.

An eight? Jemma tried to hide her disgust. Did Orlha really think so little of her that an _eight_ seemed appropriate? Who the hell did these people think she _was_?

There was some preamble by the presenters, about what it might be like to go in front of the Gamemakers. Their guesses were wrong. Jemma had been disappointed by the setup. Just a basic training gymnasium where you were expected to show off your own skill set as you saw fit. But she'd done what she'd set out to do, and she was well aware that her beauty added to her allure as a deadly combatant. She knew that they had loved her. There was no reason they wouldn't have.

The photograph of the boy from District One came on the screen, and they began announcing the scores. He pulled an eight, but the girl from his same district got a ten. Jemma made a mental note to watch out for her. She was pretty enough, and there was a sharpness to her eyes that reminded Jemma of the girls at school who'd always given her the most trouble. Both tributes from Two managed nines, and then her picture came up. It was a candid shot taken at the train station the day of her reaping. She still looked amazing, but part of her hated that this was the image all of Panem was supposed to remember her by.

Jemma held her breath, trying to hide her excitement at finding out how high her score was going to be. Maybe she'd be the first person in the history of the Games to score a twelve.

The number flashed up on the screen, and she squeezed her glass so tightly, she could hear it crack.

Seven.

Everyone in the room applauded for her, and smiled politely. And she gave her best expression of sugary-sweet, humble satisfaction.

"Oh, I'm so glad," She put a hand to her décolletage and breathed a sigh of relief, "I was worried I'd only get a four or a five!"

The boy scored a six. He looked pretty pleased with himself.

Inwardly, Jemma was stunned. How could she have possibly scored only one point higher than him? He couldn't even shave yet! And she'd seen him in training. He was pathetic compared to her. He was pathetic compared to every other tribute in the games. She couldn't wait until the cornucopia, when she'd break all the bones his stupid little neck.

She watched with furious, hate-filled eyes as the other scores came up. A ten and a nine for District Four. Low scores for District Five. The stupid giant from Six pulled in an eight, which struck her as surprisingly low given his sheer size. The brown boy from Seven got an _eleven_. The girl from District Eight got a nine.

A _nine_? Jemma could barely remember that bland, ungainly thing. How could she have possibly gotten a nine? It didn't matter anyway. Her hair made her look like a boy.

The bouncy little girl from District Nine got a seven, but the male tribute from her district only managed a four. A six for the boy from Ten and an eight for the girl. Both tributes from Eleven and the boy from Twelve scored moderately low. But the hideous red-eyed girl who'd stolen so much attention got a ten.

A ten.

Her.

The presenters blathered on about how it was definitely a year for female tributes, and the advantages a girl player could have over a boy. They discussed weight versus speed in hand-to-hand, and expressed interest in what the kid from Seven, who'd scored the highest, was capable of.

"Hacking you to pieces, if training was any clue." The boy across the room said.

"Good with an axe?" Vosburg asked quietly, in his haunted baritone voice.

"Better than good!" The boy replied, "He scares the crap outta me!"

"Stay out of the cornucopia, then. And listen for falling trees."

Jemma was furious. Why was _her_ mentor giving advice to someone else? He didn't even give advice to her! Now she really, really wanted to kill the boy from her district.

She took another sip of champagne, and noticed a change in the flavour. A coppery twang that wasn't there before. Glancing at the drink immediately told her why. The colour had changed to a pale orange. The crack in the glass had cut her hand, so that she bled into her drink. She hadn't noticed because she'd been holding it so tightly that none of the liquid had escaped, except to leave a slight wetness on her palm.

"Excuse me," Jemma said softly, as she stood up, "All of the excitement's left me a little light headed."

She didn't notice the look exchanged between the two mentors.

"It's a good idea to get an early night," Orlha nodded, "With interviews tomorrow, you'll want to look fresh."

Jemma let the mask of sweetness fall from her face as she stormed into her rooms. The bed was being turned down by a blond Avox boy with a long scar across his face. Normally, Jemma enjoyed the service of an Avox. Their inability to speak seemed like the ideal trait in a servant. But at that moment, she didn't want to see anyone at all.

"Get out." She snarled. The Avox looked up at her, startled, then nodded.

Before he left, he started to motion to something to do with the closet, but Jemma didn't want to play charades. She just wanted to be left alone.

"I said get out!" She screamed, throwing the bloodied champagne flute at his feet, so that it shattered. "Get out! Get out! Get out!" Hot tears filled her eyes as she watched the Avox hurry from the room; and she noticed that Vosburg had apparently followed her, and was standing in her doorway. He was just leaning there. Looking at her with disdain in his eyes.

Jemma was overwhelmed, first with a brief flush of embarrassment, and then with hatred for the man who caused it. He wasn't worth half the cost of a pair of her shoes.

"What do you want?" She demanded, wiping her eyes on the curve of her wrist.

"Viatrix thought you might have injured yourself. She's right." He nodded to the blood on her hand.

"Oh, what do you care? You failure!" Jemma screeched, "Look at you! How can you call yourself a mentor when you haven't even got enough of a mind to pay attention to something for five minutes straight? It's pathetic! _Pathetic! _All you do is stand there blinking your eyes at me like you're just waiting for it to be over. Don't you have any idea who I am? My father is the mayor! _The mayor!_ I'm not just some common piece of trash that crawled out of living in a low-rent basement and fitting screws into toaster ovens, I'm _somebody_, you…you…!"

She shrieked with frustration, and her whole body shook with violent sobs.

"I hate you!" She finally managed to scream, "I hate you so much!"

"I don't care." Vosburg told her evenly, as he shook his head.

"What?" Jemma gasped, wild-eyed. And then it all became clear to her. He really didn't care. At all. It didn't matter to him who lived or died, because he was some sort of monster. Otherwise he would have shown her what to do, and how to be stronger. But it didn't matter to him if she won or not.

He would just as soon see her die as see her win.

"You should wrap up that wound." He advised.

Jemma slapped him. She slapped him right across the face with her injured hand, so that her blood made a mark on him. And then, she spat on him.

"When I win," She told him, "I'm going to do everything in my power to make your life hell."

While Vosburg wiped the spit and the blood off of his face on his black sleeve, and laughed. His whole face twisted into a smile that looked like madness. Jemma was stunned. She'd never seen him do anything other than brood and nod. He looked at her with something like pity in his eyes and said:

"When you win."

* * *

_A/N: Hey! I would like to remind everyone that Jemma's totally heinous thoughts about other people (read: your tributes) are not _**my** _thoughts. My thoughts are more like: "Oh man, why did I get attached to so many characters that I have to kill? How the hell am I going to do this?"_

_So… what did you think of this chapter? Is everyone happy with their scores?  
_


	9. Loss

**Katie Breton**

One of the two stylists for District Ten, a flamboyant man called Loki, was sobbing loudly in the corner of the fitting room. The members of his team hovered around him anxiously; fanning his face with their hands, passing him a glass of water, patting him encouragingly on the shoulder. It was like watching a group of hummingbirds all fluttering around the same flower. Every last one them seemed to have completely forgotten about Katie Breton, who was standing on a pedestal in the middle of the room. They were supposed to be getting her ready for her interview with Caesar Flickerman, but then Loki had decided to pull out the third consecutive prima donna meltdown of the day.

Katie wasn't offended. She couldn't bring herself to care what they, or anyone, did. She'd been completely numb since her reaping.

She remembered walking up to the stage, thinking of all the awful things that were going to happen to her. The way that they'd parade her around the Capitol, as if she were a straw effigy that they were going to burn. They'd dress her in a uniform, and put her in the arena and make her fight to the death. And at home, Kasey would be forced to watch her starve and kill and die.

Kasey.

Her brother was only eight years old, even if he thought he was all grown up. Katie had been taking care of him since she was twelve, acting as the family's sole breadwinner and caregiver when their parents died of tuberculosis. Kasey had gotten pretty sick as well, and for awhile she didn't think he was going to make it. It had devastated her. Even though he survived, there'd always been a sort of sickliness about him that kept her on edge, and brought her back to that frame of mind. Every time he caught a cold or had a cough, she bundled him up and practically held him prisoner next to their black iron stove, worrying and hovering as much as she could until he was better again. He thought that she was too protective, too nervous about him, and maybe he was right. But how could she not worry? He was all she had in a world where you could so easily starve to death, or freeze if you couldn't get firewood, or be reaped for the Hunger Games if you were just plain unlucky.

It was obvious that Kasey was starting to get exasperated with her. He didn't think that he needed to be mothered, and he'd spent the last two weeks picking fights with her. Shouting at her that she didn't know as much as she thought she did. That she didn't know anything. That she wasn't his mother. She knew that he was just angry, and probably didn't mean most of what he said, but it still stung. It made her feel like she'd failed him.

Babs, one of Katie's old friends, had promised to look after Kasey during the games. Her family's dairy farm would be a good place for him to stay, since they had an extra bed. But Babs didn't think her family would be able to support another mouth to feed for more than a few weeks, which meant that if Katie didn't come home, there was a good chance he'd be on his own. Even the kindest of people couldn't be bothered with the burden of a sickly orphan, without so much as an inheritance to his name. At the very least, he'd have to sell their house. The home their family had lived in since their father was a boy. The place where the closets still held all of their parents clothes, and a bottle on the bedside table was filled with the rare and expensive treasure of her mother's scented oil, because Katie couldn't bring herself to sell anything even on the hardest of days.

The best case scenario would be if somebody took Kasey in as a ranch-hand, and provided room and board. But he was too young and his health was too delicate for that to be realistic. More than likely, he could get a job at one of the slaughterhouses. Not a pleasant prospect. The jobs for children at a place like that were hardly pleasant. Even the thought of what they _might_ be like made all the bile rise to her throat, and she doubted it would be something Kasey could survive.

Her first night as a tribute, sleeping on the train, Katie had found herself trapped in a nightmare. In it, she had won the games. She was the victor. They took her from the arena, made her look beautiful and sent her on a tour of all the districts. But when she got to District Ten, Babs was waiting at the station alone. Everyone was cheering, and telling Katie what a hero she was, but Kasey wasn't there. He'd died, because one night when he was sleeping, his lungs filled up with water and he drowned. Katie saw him choking, and sputtering. Saw his blue face, and saw his coffin being put into the ground while he was too far away for her hands to reach him. They set him next to their parents in a small wooden box that disappeared under piles of earth. And then she woke up.

She'd had the same dream every night since.

"It's terrible!" Loki wailed, blowing his nose loudly on a silken handkerchief, "Just look at it! The dress looks like garbage! The girl looks like garbage! The hair looks like garbage! I mean, really! Can you look at that girl and tell me she doesn't look like a hideous, steaming pile of garbage?" And then he started to wail indecipherably.

Katie glanced at herself in the mirror. The dress Loki had chosen for her fit into his ridiculous theme for the livestock district, a fanciful attempt at something along the lines of what he called _cowgirl chic_. Her blond hair had been braided into two pigtails, then tied at the bottom with blue gingham ribbons, and they'd put a straw hat on her head even though she'd never worn one before in her life. Her hat back home was made of thin, floppy leather and had a wide brim that kept the rain off of her head, and the sun out of her eyes. The dress itself was made of white lace, and fell just above her knees; it looked like it had been made out of some rich family's curtains. It didn't have any sleeves, just a pair of narrow blue straps that hit her shoulders in exactly the wrong place. Katie had quite broad, athletic shoulders that she tried to show off as little as possible - most summers she wore a thin denim jacket over her work shirt, no matter how hot the weather was. It wasn't anything that could be helped. She worked from sunrise to sunup most days, and that had naturally put muscles on her arms. The dress itself didn't have much form to it, either. Clearly, Loki had been expecting his tribute to be a girl with a much softer shape, the sort of gently feminine figure that the wealthier girls from District Ten were prone to.

On another day, in another place, his comments would have made her feel self-conscious or ashamed of herself. But now, she didn't care if she looked stupid or not. Even if she quietly decided that she would never be able to make best friends with her stylist.

"It isn't _so_ bad…" Somebody said.

"Maybe if we pin the waist, to give her more shape…"

"That's it!" Loki gasped, springing from his seat. He circled around Katie a few times, tapping his chin and occasionally glancing at her hair.

She rolled her eyes at him as he passed around behind her. It was just how he'd been when he was getting her ready for the chariot ride. He seemed to take some bizarre satisfaction in making a mess of his tribute, and then tidying her up.

"Do we have any more of this ribbon?" He asked, taking one of her braids in his slender, almost feminine hand, his frantic face now locked in deep concentration.

One of his assistants brought him a spool of the gingham, and he wrapped three or four lengths of it around Katie's waist, making a belt that pulled the dress in and added more colour. He tossed the hat off of her head and smoothed her hair back instead. It looked better, though not by a wide margin. Still, all of the stylists cheered for the changes like Loki was some kind of innovative genius, and not just a dizzy idiot with peacock feathers painted on his eyelids.

Although, Katie had to admit that she was at least grateful for the cowboy boots she'd been put in. Her escort, an impossibly bubbly woman who giggled at any opportunity, had been training her to walk in high heels. Katie had nearly broken her ankle practicing with the black stilettos, and then had almost suffered a heart-attack at the prospect of going into the Games with a limp. The boots had a heel, but it was square and sturdy and not very high. They weren't bad at all. She found herself hoping she might get to wear a pair similar to them in the arena.

As the prep team ushered her into the elevator, she tried to remember what her mentor had told her to do. It was difficult to recall. Something about lining up in the right order, and playing some angle up.

Katie couldn't remember what her angle was. It didn't seem to matter much.

She was totally shut-down. The Games were beginning the next day, and she couldn't bring herself to focus or to care. Part of her said her that she had to survive, but another part - a louder part - was telling her that it didn't matter. None of her efforts would be worth anything, because there was bound to be someone smarter than her, someone faster, someone hungrier, or someone more precise. All of the reasons she had to want to go home burned in her chest, but she didn't know if it would be enough.

Like a zombie, she left the elevator and let a production assistant grab her by the shoulders and place her in line behind the boy from District Eleven. He was wearing a bright green suit. Katie couldn't see the front of it, but she would have put down good money that it had fruit patterns on the tie or the lapels. She remembered how lovely the tributes from Eleven had looked before the opening ceremonies, wrapped in light gold chitons, with crowns of grape leaves on their heads. Their stylists must have run out of ideas.

The line started to move, and she could hear music and applause. The massive stage lights that seemed to illuminate every inch of the city circle almost blinded her as she made her way onto the stage. She took her seat, and looked straight ahead. There were the cameras, the shadowy figures of the audience, the stylists in their box, and Caesar Flickerman. Greeting all of Panem.

It was hard to believe that the whole world could see her. Sitting in the stupid dress that made her feel so vulnerable, staring into a sea of people whose faces she couldn't see. Kasey was watching. She wondered what he thought.

Caesar, who looked almost grotesque with his brink pink eyelids and lips, made a few more opening remarks and told some jokes that none of the tributes thought were funny. Then it was time for the interviews to begin.

Katie watched with a distant interest as the girl from District One sat down across from their host. She had a nice dress that actually flattered her figure. It was a very pale, shimmering silver that looked like it was made from liquid luxury. The girl spoke well and came across as very intelligent, but also a little over-confident. The boy from One followed her, and surpassed her with his natural charm, his pro-Capitol sentiments and his pregnant girlfriend. It looked like stiff competition from the get-go.

Then, the tributes from Two. And after them, the girl from District Three that everybody called the beauty queen took the stage. She looked stunning, but she seemed unsettled by something. Maybe it was the bright lights. Caesar told her not to be shy about talking in front of the cameras, so she batted her eyelashes at the world and said that wasn't shy about doing anything. Katie held back the urge to roll her eyes.

The boy from Three was dull. The girl from Four a stoic warrior woman, though that might have come across because she wasn't used to answering questions. The boy from Four was kind of terrifying, and neither of the tributes from District Five, nor the girl from District Six made any sort of impression.

None of it was terribly surprising, and it didn't do anything to pull Katie out of her self-induced emotional coma.

Until the boy from District Six, the really tall kid, unfolded himself from his seat and had his turn at answering questions. Katie tuned out the beginning of what was said, but then something caught her ear.

"My brother's name is Aloe. He's only six years old, and I help my mother take care of him."

She looked up at him sharply.

"He's watching right now. Is there anything you'd like to say to him?" Caesar asked gently.

"Yes," The boy from Six answered carefully, "Aloe. Whatever happens to me, I don't want you to become a bitter person. Bitterness is a poison that sits in your veins, and kills all the things you are. It eats you up. You can be angry, but it shouldn't be something you hold onto."

The audience went still, with only a few confused murmurs darting between the shadowy figures. Most tributes said something like: _I'll be home when this is over_, or _I wish you could see the Capitol_. People seemed as much confused by what the boy had said as by why he might have said it.

But Katie knew. She watched as the interview finished awkwardly, and the huge boy took his seat. She'd never really looked at him before, or if she had, she'd only seen his size and the threat he might pose. Now she noticed the look of deep concentration in his eyes. The way his mouth fell into a worried frown at the corners. And somehow, she saw herself reflected back at her.

She glanced at the other tributes, wondering what they all had in common with each other. What they were competing for, and who they had to go home to. What did the Hunger Games really mean to those who fought in them?

Kasey. Always, her thoughts returned to Kasey. Would he be able to overcome her death? Could he fight the bitterness that Saffron Kain had spoken of? Probably not. Katie had been thinking of what his future would be like if she died, but she'd never considered what effect _watching_ her death might have on him. What kind of person would he become then? She'd seen the families of fallen tributes become changed by grief. Sometimes, they just stopped functioning. If that happened to Kasey, then he would surely die.

"Katie Breton!" Caesar announced, pulling her away from her thoughts. She had to do something now, she had to show everyone that she was worth betting on.

She smiled brightly, and shook Caesar's hand with as much self-assuredness as she could muster. Up close, he looked even less human than he did on television.

"You look very sharp, little lady." Caesar nodded to her dress.

"Thank you! Loki is a wonderful stylist, even if his temperament is kind of overwhelming." She said, and the crowd chuckled because Loki had become somewhat notorious since the last Games. There was a blink of light that indicated the camera was now on the stylists, and so Loki blew her a kiss.

"Yes, he sure is a character. But I guess you two learned to get along, huh?" Caesar smiled.

"Oh, absolutely. Loki's a great example of how you can learn to get along with someone because they have what you need. I needed to look good for all of Panem, and Loki needed someone to dress! So I put up with his drama, and he put up with the fact that I'm built for killing instead of wearing fancy dresses."

Katie heard the confident, almost cheerful words pass through her lips, but she had no idea who was saying them. It certainly wasn't what she was thinking.

"I take it that you're pretty confident you can win."

"Mr. Flickerman," Katie looked into his eyes, and spoke as if he was the only person watching her, "I'm not going to do anything _but_ win."

* * *

_A/N: Oh man, you guys. I am getting the flu something fierce. I'm going to try my best to get Artemis's chapter up tomorrow, and then I might take a break before the Cornucopia. I want to thank AnnaLucia1895 and AngelWildWings181 for being super-patient. It's hard to be the last two chapters of a ten chapter block, no matter how fast an author updates._

_First I write, then I sleep…_


	10. Drums

**Artemis Reed**

The Launch Room was cold and sterile, and voices echoed off of its smooth metal walls and bounced back to their owners. Everything looked and smelled like it had been built only a few days before, though Artemis Reed had heard somewhere that they begin construction on next year's arena before the Games were even finished. While the last handful of tributes were still fighting for their lives, the Gamemakers had already grown bored. It was disgusting, and it was wasteful, but it was life.

The girl from District Four took a deep, cleansing breath. The air was too dry in the Capitol, and she'd suffered from a couple of nosebleeds before she'd adjusted. But there was moisture here, in the catacombs beneath the arena, and she could tell. It was like drinking clean water for the first time after weeks of being given only sugary syrups. Perhaps they'd fight on the shores of the ocean, or at the very least near to a lake. The ocean would suit Artemis best, since she'd allied herself with Ferne Ransford - the boy from her district. Between the two of them, they'd have the most combined knowledge of their surroundings, and a genuine domination of beach survival skills. There was a good chance most of the other tributes wouldn't even know the differences between fresh water and salt water. And fishing? Artemis had been shoreline fishing since she was old enough to hold a rod. Fishing was in her blood.

It was strange, the electricity that had taken her over that morning. Almost like excitement, but that couldn't be right. The Hunger Games were nothing more than a means to an end. She didn't have the Career training, and she didn't have the money, but she'd volunteered anyway. Just to prove what she could do. To herself, to her district and to the world.

She would not die like her mother.

Amine had been Artemis's little sister. Artemis could remember a time when their family was well enough off that they didn't have to worry about where food came from, but Amine could not. The mayor of District Four had changed the fishing laws when she was just a baby, making it harder to earn a living if you didn't have a job with one of the Companies. The wealthy families that owned fleets of large boats that could go far into the waters, and come back with half a dozen of the massive bluefin tuna. Sometimes, they even came home with sharks. Gweneth Orczy's father had a job on a trawler, and she had a necklace made from shark teeth. Gweneth and her brother were good friends to Artemis, but people like that didn't know how hard it could be to survive sometimes. Artemis's father took open jobs on small line boats, but he was an independent fisherman, and as time went by it got harder and harder for him to find work. Sometimes he went three months or longer without setting foot on a boat.

The house their family lived in had always felt safe to Artemis, even if there wasn't always enough to go around. And when they were short of something, they made sure that Amine had the most of it. She was the baby after all, and she had to grow up strong. Maybe they'd spoiled her, but none of them noticed. Amine was headstrong and stubborn and wilful. Everyone thought that she'd grow up to be something - especially her big sister - but then she didn't get a chance to grow up at all.

It was the beginning of winter when it all happened. When she thought back to it she could still remember how cold and icy the thick air had been that day, and sometimes she could even feel the chill in her lungs. The autumn had not been kind to the family, and though her older sister had taken a job at the cannery, it looked like lean times were ahead. When Artemis tried to remember everything that happened, she recalled first how nervous her mother had been about the whole thing. Her mother was always nervous, always anxious about something. Money. Food. The foul turns the weather could take. Sickness. She was terrified of one of her children getting reaped, and had taught each of them how to use a weapon. It was the only thing Artemis was grateful to her mother for doing.

The family had gone through a few rough winters, and they were never as bad as anyone thought they'd be. Sometimes, the nights were colder that Artemis would have liked, but she usually got the heavy wool blanket out and put on an extra pair of socks, and she and her sisters would push their beds together and share the warmth when it got really bad. And if the food ran out, she bummed something to eat off of Gwen or Murciello. The rest of the family would do similar, and nothing would ever be as bad as their mother made it out to be. Perhaps the worst winter they'd gone through was when Amine was only four. They hadn't suffered terribly again for a long while, and then three years ago the signs had started to show that they were on the verge of another bad turn. Their mother had been frantic over it, in her usual way. Artemis hadn't thought a lot about it. But when little Amine heard their mother and father talking about what was to come, she panicked; and her mind fixating upon the desolate atmosphere of endless cold and hunger that she heard hushed whispers about.

Artemis still blamed her mother for what came next.

Amine had started stealing. It was always little things. She was a bold girl and clever, and so it had taken a while for them to realize what was going on. Artemis had been the first one to catch her, coming home with a fresh-caught crab that she couldn't explain away. And she'd cuffed Amine over the head and fought back the rising surge of panic in her chest, because people were _executed_ for crimes. She'd told their parents, and her mother - true to form - had panicked. At the time, Artemis had thought it was all over, and was glad that she'd managed to catch her sister before something dangerous had happened.

But Amine hadn't stopped. She'd only gotten smarter about hiding it - although not smart enough to keep from slipping up one day at the docks, when she was supposed to be helping their mother work. Mending the nets was a common enough job, and every girl and boy in the district knew how to do it to make a few coins where they could, especially when the bad weather rolled in and the seas got angry. Amine must have wandered off partway through her task. Artemis never knew all of the details, but she did know about what had happened next. One of the smaller boats had come in with a fresh haul, and Amine had tried to steal from it while they were still weighing their catch. She thought nobody had noticed her. But there was always a Peacekeeper or two around the docks, because even exhausted fishermen could find it in themselves to start a good brawl if they thought their catch was being under-weighed.

Amine was caught. Their mother had panicked. There had been a scuffle, Artemis was later told. She hadn't been there, but she could picture it plainly in her mind - the young Peacekeeper, her frightened sister, and her wild-eyed mother, finally succumbing to the panicked emotions that had driven most of her life. She had wrestled with the Peacekeeper, frantic to get the gun from his hands and somehow desperately convinced that he meant to shoot Amine on the spot. In all of the commotion another Peacekeeper had come to pry her off, the gun had dropped, and by the sheer and bitter will of fate, a bullet had landed square between Amine's eyes.

Their mother had broken into hysterical violence, and so the second Peacekeeper had shot her, too. Just like that. Artemis always wondered what it had been like to be there. If the red of the blood had been as bright as she envisioned. If Amine had died immediately, or if she had had a few seconds to somehow realize what had happened. If her mother had even realized what she had done - not just to Amine, but to all her children.

In the end, she'd never know for certain. All she could be sure of was that it was her mother's fear, her panic, her cowardice that had caused the whole mess to end up the way it had. Amine may or may not have been executed for her crime. Those things could go either way, particularly with children. But it was the fact that their mother had been unable to accept things, unable to conduct herself with honour and decorum even in the face of disaster, that had sealed their fate.

Artemis would never allow herself to be like that. She didn't care if she lived or died in the Games, but she was going to show the world what a woman from District Four was _supposed_ to be like. She was going to show her family and friends and neighbours that her resemblance to her mother was only skin deep. _Look_, she was going to say. _See who I am. I 'm the one who stares at fear and holds onto dignity. I'm the one who doesn't fear disaster, but faces it head-on, because there's no sense in living otherwise._ She'd never let panic and paranoia govern her life.

She would not die like her mother.

She refused to die like her mother.

Closing her eyes, Artemis inhaled the water-heavy air around her, and wondered if that wasn't the source of her almost-excitement. This was finally it. If she could win, or even just die with her dignity intact, she would prove how different she was. She would seize her own identity.

Celsus, the stylist, wove a ribbon into the coronet braid she was arranging on the crown of Artemis's head. It was a soft velvet ribbon the colour of the shallow sea, and it had belonged to Amine. Artemis had been content to wrap it around her wrist, or keep it in her pocket, but he had insisted that it was lovely, and that people needed to see it.

"Nervous?" The stylist asked gently.

"No." Artemis said, and she thought it was curious that it was true.

An Avox girl with sad eyes brought in the outfit for the arena. They were the clothes Artemis would wear until she won the Games. They were the clothes twenty-three tributes would be buried in. When she'd watched the coverage of the first day in previous years, she had noticed the presenters commenting about how you could guess the terrain of your arena from the clothes they provided you with.

There was a very fitted grey t-shirt, and loose pants of the same colour, made of a fabric Artemis didn't recognize.

"Bamboo fibre," Celsus raised his eyebrows, as he took the hem of the pants between his fingers, "Wicks away moisture. Keeps you warm when it's cold, and cools you down when it's hot."

Well that didn't help. Artemis had already deduced that there would be a large body of water nearby, and the other clue seemed to be that it was either going to be warm or cold. Not as specific as the tribute had hoped. And the boots were equally confounding. They were made of the same material as a wetsuit, like the ones those adventurous enough to go diving wore. She had only seen a handful of the suits up close, but she recognized the strange, spongy thickness of the neoprene. The soles were made of rubber, and seemed a little heavy. But Artemis recognized them as being slip-resistant, like the deck shoes affordable only to the richest people of her district. She became certain that they would be right next the ocean. Or else somewhere very slippery.

"The jacket's nice. I almost wish I got one, too." Celsus chuckled, helping her into a thin windbraker with a very high neck. It was the same grey and the same bamboo fabric as the pants.

Soon enough, her time for preparation was over.

There was nothing left for her to do but take her place. A thousand questions swirled in her head, about where she would be fighting, what chaos the cornucopia would bring, if her plans for an alliance would succeed, and who she would have to betray in order to survive.

Adrenaline surged through her veins, and she felt truly alive in a way she had never known possible.

She could hear her own heartbeat. Loud and steady.

Like a drum calling her to war.

This was it.

The Hunger Games were about to begin.

* * *

_A/N: I did it! I finished all of the tribute introductions! N__ow to kill them all... _

_Except, first I'm going to take a break for a couple of days until I feel better. My plans for the rest of evening include drinking Nyquil straight from the bottle and watching Finding Nemo, so I'm pretty sure anything I'd write would be trippy as all hell and involve clownfish. _

_In the meantime, amuse yourselves by guessing the winner, or the arena, or picking out who of the major ten will be first to die. Wild speculation time! Go nuts!_


	11. Trigger

**Day One**

There was a wall full of television screens, all of which were black. In a few moments, they'd come to life with the unblinking eyes of all of the cameras in the arena. They would see things that most humans could never stand to look at, and being the simple machines they were, they wouldn't turn away.

Facing the televisions were two rows of six tables that curved along the width of the room, like the seats in an amphitheatre. On top of the tables were headphones that could be turned to the audio channel of one of the many screens. Watching the Games, a mentor could focus on their tribute, and do their best to ascertain their needs.

As the escorts and the mentors took their seats, with their records of sponsorship deals and their fears of having their tributes killed at the Cornucopia, one of the screens flickered to life. It showed four people, sitting in front of a projection of weather conditions inside the arena, talking about what was to be expected throughout the Games. Who was a front-runner, and how the competition stacked up against the tributes from previous years. They were only two rooms over, being filmed under bright lights and close scrutiny.

Lazuli Dorok and Mustafa Flag sat down on opposite ends of the District One table, in the front row and center of the room. Lazuli had refused to sign a full cadre of sponsors to Royal, and since she was the only one who could sign off on the deals, Flag was furious with her. Not only was she damaging his reputation as a reliable judge of character, she was trying to take away his fourth victory. She would squander resources on a girl that he thought was not capable of victory. The air around of the two of them was as frosty as it could get.

Ulysses Book, on the other hand, was as pleased as he could be with his tributes from District Six. In Saffron Kain, he'd found an unusual draw for an audience that had grown tired of the flawlessly trained Careers dominating combat. Between himself and Kain's mentor, he'd managed to round up quite a few sponsors, and the infamous gentle giant had quite the gift coming to him. His golden bracelets clattered together as he flipped a stray dreadlock off of his shoulder and took his seat. Part of him would never know for certain whose name had been on that rain-soaked slip of paper, but it didn't matter now. He was finally getting noticed.

Once everyone had made themselves comfortable, Prisca Steeple stepped forward in her purple robe and flashed them all a tight, harried smile. She looked down her nose at a list of information, while the presenters still argued on the silent screen behind her and a few of the mentors ran their fingers across the edges of the table. There were a million things to do that day, and she wanted to get the current chore over with as quickly as possible.

"Good morning. I trust everyone is eager for this year's competition to get started," She said without any real enthusiasm in her voice, "There are a few new mentors with us, and a new escort - Diana Mapletree, for District Three…"

There was a round of light applause. The woman's name was actually _Deanna_ Mapletree, but nobody corrected Prisca. Most of the mentors were on pins-and-needles, and the escorts just wanted to get to their first coffee break.

"To keep things running smoothly, I'm going to ask that our more seasoned professionals put aside rivalries and try to help anyone confused with the system. After all, at the end of the day, our only _real_ goal is to put on an amazing show, whether our tributes win or lose."

It was almost traditional for her to say that last line, and it was equally traditional for Vosburg to cough into his hand. She never understood why he felt compelled to do it, or what it meant. But the other mentors, those who had been through the hell of the arena, felt strangely connected by his gesture. It was a shock that brought them back to reality, and reminded them not to get to comfortable in the detached artistry of the people who worked behind the scenes.

"This year's arena is highly unusual, and one we're proud to present. Hopefully, it'll compensate for the less than intriguing players we have this year…"

Flag took it as a personal offence that she implied anyone's tributes were boring. He always felt that if the Gamemakers couldn't figure out how to make someone interesting, that was their problem. If _he_ were responsible for directing the Games, every year would be an extravaganza of excitement and suspense. Real human emotion didn't just happen - it had to be carefully manufactured, with the delicate touch of a surgeon.

The wall behind Prisca blinked into startling life. Reflexively, most of the eyes in the room were drawn towards it. Each screen displayed, for the first time, the place that they would be watching for the countless hours to come.

To those who had been in the Games, and knew what to look for, the arena was terrifying.

Every inch of it looked like a death trap. There were two unconnected sources of water, both on the west of the map. One was a small lake to the north, surrounded by brick streets and the skeleton of a large, ornate building; the other was further to the south and hidden amongst gnarled trees and irregular wooden structures. Both were fed by a serpentine river that served as a moat around the Cornucopia. There was an abundance of buildings and structures that seemed unnatural for the nature of the Games. The Cornucopia itself was in the middle of a paved circle; behind it was a decrepit, castle-shaped building, and in front of it was a statue of a man in a suit holding hands with some kind of round-eared creature. If Lazuli squinted, it kind of looked like a little bear in shorts, but she couldn't make up her mind what it was supposed to be.

"The site was inspired by a collection of ruins in the southeast. The arena has been constructed using a combination of transported pieces of the original ruins themselves, and our climate-controlled terraforming technology. The end result is quite stunning, if I do say so myself. It combines concrete surfaces, many overgrown with moss, and a humidity factor of ninety-eight point three percent - the highest humidity factor we've ever used. Needless to say, it's going to be an interesting location."

Someone from the District Five team yawned.

Prisca Steeple gave them another meaningless smile, nodded at nobody in particular, and left the room.

From her place at the District Three table, Viatrix took a deep breath and put in her headphones. She switched to channel fourteen, the same number as the screen that showed the cornucopia. There wasn't much to listen to just yet. Only the strange song of faraway cicadas, and the familiar clicking of the landmines being armed. In a matter of moments, the tributes would be standing there. Waiting to kill or be killed. Viatrix wondered how long her tribute would last this year. She'd grown used to him, the way she always did. He was so young. It didn't seem fair. She'd trained him as best she could; warned him not to trust too quickly, told him how to think on his feet, gotten him a few sponsors. But the boy wouldn't win. Part of her hoped that he would die at the Cornucopia, just so it wouldn't drag on - so her heart could break quickly.

As the metal plates rose to the circle, Viatrix looked at the face of each tribute. Sometimes, she saw ghosts there. The shadows of the tributes she had trained, all dead now, and the whispers of those she herself had killed in order to survive. There were times when she wondered if her life had been worth it.

The video feed was live to all of Panem now. Parents were about to watch their children die. Viatrix began to shake uncontrollably, her breathing shallow and a sound in her ears like radio static. Was this the year she finally snapped? Was she about to lose her mind? Beside her, Vosburg sat as still as a statue, trapped in his own arena from thirty years before. He'd never really left that place, his partner knew. She wanted him to help her be strong, to help her get through what was to come, but he couldn't. They were both frozen.

She could hear the dramatic anthem of the Games play, as Claudius Templeton's voice welcomed viewers to what was going to be an extraordinary year. The Tributes stood in place, now. The formal announcement to commence combat was made, and the sixty second waiting period began.

_Bam_!

It was the boy from District Eight, with the cleft chin and the shaggy hair. He'd stepped forward, like he was positioning himself to run for the Cornucopia. But his foot stepped over the line of his circle, and the mine went off instantly. The explosion popped like a kernel of corn, and everyone in the control station recoiled from the screen. The boy's leg had been ripped to shreds, and a piece of his arm was severed. They could see the limb blasted backwards through the air.

A drop of his blood landed on the camera lens, marking the screen.

The injured tribute lay on the ground and screamed so loudly, a few people had to remove their headphones. He would stay that way until he died, blood gushing from his wounds, burns blistering on his skin, shrapnel piercing his body. The other tributes would have to ignore him if they wanted to move quickly, to obtain the riches of the Cornucopia. And those who managed to secured the central area would have to listen to his agony until it was over and the hovercraft came.

"Damn it!" The boy's mentor shouted, and threw his headphones down on the table sharply, "The little shit couldn't last fifteen more seconds?" He stood up, knocked his chair to the ground and stormed out of the room.

The escort from District Two laughed derisively, and said:

"Well, that's one less to worry about."

The gong rang out, and the race for supplies began. It was a flurry of motion and madness. Aydiano Sono had been placed within sprinting distance of an axe, doubtless to make for an entertaining first round. He grabbed it hastily, and swung at the nearest tribute. The head of Eddison Blish from District Nine split open like a ripe pumpkin, and Aydiano kicked the body away to free his blade from the sticky membrane within the skull. The axe seemed to glide effortlessly in his hands, and with a sharp stroke, the girl from District Eleven was sliced across the stomach.

"Attaboy!" Cheered Aydiano's mentor.

Jai Terradon tripped as she raced for a machete that had caught her eye. Her escort gasped - Jai was his only hope of backing a winner now. She grabbed the hilt clumsily; but her hold managed to be better than good enough, as she turned towards the nearest tribute and stabbed fiercely. Aydiano's axe chopped through the empty air next to her head while he crumpled forward. Jai had managed to pierce the side of his stomach. It wouldn't kill him, but it was a bad injury. Without looking at what she'd gathered, the girl grabbed a handful of supplies and bolted in a northward direction.

Aydiano stumbled into the tree line, trailing blood. Flare Heartforth watched him go, clearly wondering if it would be worth the time to pursue him. But her attention was interrupted when she noticed Royal Alabaster reaching for the larger of two quivers of arrows. There was a good selection of knives still scattered among the supplies, but she didn't take the time to be selective. Obviously she'd zeroed in on her fellow District One tribute as a target. Lazuli could tell that her student remembered her last instruction: to kill Royal as quickly into the Games as possible.

Flare grabbed a butterfly knife and charged towards him. The more competitive escorts held their breath, hoping that she'd kill the boy and knock Mustafa Flag down a peg. But Royal was faster than anybody expected, and he deftly sidestepped her attack. Flare readjusted her footing, and went to strike again, moving as though she thought that he would try to defend himself in direct combat. She was too slow. Royal was already fleeing the scene, the quiver strapped hastily to his back. It was the only thing he'd managed to grab, apart from a waterskin and a package of beef jerky. But that would have to suffice. Flag grinned from ear to ear. Clearly the kid had taken his advice about not engaging Flare directly. Royal was good, but he'd never survive a head-on fight with her.

The boy who'd triggered his mine was still screaming. Vosburg watched his tribute, Jemma Hill, still standing on her circle. He presumed she'd lost focus because of the sound. Because of the sight of the jagged white bone protruding from the stump of his arm, and the look of his mangled foot. A girl with her pampered background had probably never seen anyone so badly injured, and the sight seemed to have shocked her. Maybe a clean kill wouldn't have held her up so bad. No matter how cruel her temperament, she could never have been prepared for the visceral shock of real violence. The dangerous girl from District Two took aim at Jemma, brandishing a throwing knife. Everyone knew that Klara Nitne had excellent aim, her name had been mentioned by nearly everyone as a possible contender. But her blade never made it to her target.

Klara's eyes went wide and she staggered towards the river. She didn't make it. The spear sticking out of her back saw to that. She'd been killed by a boy some of the staff barely recognized. A gangly sort of kid with curly blond hair, and a quick murmur of conversation revealed he was from District Five. He raced towards Jemma and grabbed her hand.

"Come on!" He said, with an unexpected determination, and ran with her out of the fray.

By then, most of the tributes had fled the Cornucopia. Some with supplies and some without. Only Flare, Artemis Reed, Ferne Ransford and Saffron Kain remained. They would set up their camp just north of the horn, at the base of the castle. And for awhile it would be quiet, while the alliance made plans and the others caught their breath.

The boy from District Eight had finally gone still.

The cannon sounded four times, and the hovercraft came for the bodies. The bloodbath was over.

"Small losses this year." Ulysses Book said to nobody in particular. Usually the Cornucopia yielded at least six or seven deaths.

"Good news for us," Flag answered with a shrug, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket, "Well-paced action means well-paying sponsors. Anybody else going for coffee?"

* * *

_A/N: I'm back! Yay! Thanks to everybody for the well-wishes, I'm feeling much better now. _

_If your character didn't appear in this chapter, don't worry. I haven't forgotten about them, and they'll show up doing awesome/morally reprehensible stuff soon. So, this chapter was clearly an experiment in perspective. Did you like it? What do you think of the arena?  
_


	12. Precision

It seemed as though the Cornucopia had been a hundred years ago, but Tansy Capro knew that it was still only the afternoon of the first day. The sun was high and hot in the sky, and her hair and clothes were damp with the heavy moisture in the air. She moved as quickly and as silently as she could, carrying with her the three things she'd managed to recover from the stockpile. One was a large bright blue knapsack with a single strap. At first, Tansy had thought it was a regular pack, maybe with some rations inside. But it turned out to be a good-sized waterproof tent, that folded itself up to be carried easily. It was a lucky find. Even if it never rained, it would at least manage to keep the muggy air out at night. Hopefully. She'd also grabbed a pair of night-vision glasses and a small metal tube. It was about the length of her finger, and was attached to a tiny figaro chain that could be fastened to one of the zippers on her windbreaker. She had no idea what it was.

The trees around her were taller than any she'd ever seen, and their leaves were dark and flat. Their branches curved up towards the sky, and they looked impossible to climb. Still, if she could figure a way up there, the others would be hard-pressed to find her. That was her plan. To make her way upward. But first, she needed water. There was a pit in her stomach already - she'd gotten so used to the abundance of food in the Capitol - but she knew it would lessen if she had something to drink.

She kept walking westward.

By the time Tansy got to the lake, it was a welcome sight. There was an almost serene quality to the place, despite the strange and unexpected structure on the opposite shore. An enormous treehouse, built in to the massive branches of what looked to be a synthetic tree. And yet, the leaves rustled. The house itself was multiple levels, attached to one another by wooden staircases that wrapped around the trunk of the tree. It looked to Tansy like a wonderful place to make camp, but probably vulnerable to attack. She decided that once she'd had her drink, she'd make her way back to the trees. Soon, she'd have to figure out a weapon for herself.

It was so quiet. So removed from the horrors of that morning. She knelt, put her hands into the cool water, and splashed it onto her face. It was more refreshing than she could have imagined. Her cheeks were burning hot, and the clear fresh water soothed her skin and washed away the sweat that clung to her brow. Cupping her hands, she began to drink. Quickly and desperately. There was nothing she could do to purify the water. The lake was cooler than the air, but it was still warm enough to house lethal bacteria and parasites. But Tansy couldn't bring herself to worry about that.

The arrow moved silently through the air and landed between her ribs. She gasped breathlessly, like a fish on land, and tried to pull the arrow out of her side, but she was too weak. It was as if all of the air she breathed in just rushed back out again. The pain became excruciating. The blood that filled the collapsed chamber of her lung began to trickle of out the side of her mouth, coppery and warm.

Tansy saw her last glimpse of the world was as though she were looking through a piece of gossamer. The clear blue sky full of round summer clouds. The house across the lake. And a pair of blood red eyes.

The cannon sounded.

Bell Oliver pulled her arrow out of Tansy's side, and collected her kill's equipment. The tent would come in handy, since the roof of the treehouse wasn't in great shape, and the glasses would be excellent. She'd be able to take her position at sundown, and snipe anyone who came into her territory. She planned to sleep in two hour shifts throughout the day.

She smiled to herself a little as she ripped the metal tube from Tansy's jacket. Unlike it's previous owner, she knew exactly what it was. A fire starter.

It was made from a combination of metal alloys that included magnesium. If Bell were to scrape the outside of the tube with the edge of an arrowhead or a knife blade, it would create a hot white spark that looked like the flash of fireworks. If she could get her hands on some wood shavings, or a piece of birch bark, she'd be able to get a nice flame going in no time. The downside was that she was a little reluctant to dull one of her arrows. She'd managed to grab the best of two compound bows at the Cornucopia - hers was made of aluminium, the other had been yew - but she'd gotten the smaller quiver. Only six arrows. She had to be diligent, and use them carefully. The instant she ran out, she'd be a sitting duck.

The hovercraft came for Tansy's corpse as Bell made her way back across the suspension bridge that led to the treehouse. Even though she was curious to see how the bodies were removed from the arena, she didn't turn around. It wasn't safe to linger anywhere in the open too long. Bell's new rule was to spend no more than one minute in any given place that wasn't her camp. And even then, she knew she couldn't get too comfortable. No fires in the top rooms, especially at night, and not too much noise. From the highest window, she could see into the next area of the arena, with the craggy red mountain, and the towers of the castle ruin by the Cornucopia. Any fire she lit would instantly give away her location, just as surely as the brightest beacon. But with the stifling heat of the place, she'd only need a fire for boiling water and cooking any raw meat she might be able to get herself.

Bell wasn't too concerned with her stomach just yet. Along with her bow, she'd picked up one of the largest packs of food. A good dozen pieces of beef jerky, dried fruit, a mixture of different kinds of nuts, and oats. She'd almost laughed with delight when she found the oats. She couldn't even _afford_ to eat them back in District Twelve, and the Gamemakers had just casually put them in the supplies. Like they were a cornerstone of basic survival.

The treehouse, though. That had been her favourite of all her gains so far. The stairs, made of oiled boards, creaked when she stepped. She ran swiftly to get from room to room, and favoured the very top. There was a double bed in there. An actual bed. She'd never dreamed anything in the Games would be so easy. It made her a little nervous. If she got too complacent, maybe a bolt of lightning would strike her tree to move her deeper into the action. But for the first few days, it would be perfect.

As long as the other tributes remembered to kill one another to keep the audience happy.

Lanterns hung from thick ropes tied to the higher branches of the tree, no doubt they'd once been used to light the path of the stairs at night. A few of them were little more than shards of broken glass. Two of the rooms on the way to the top of the house were empty shells, one of them scarred with what looked like burn marks from an explosion. But, considering how old the place must've been, Bell thought it was in miraculously good shape. There was a writing desk, bolted to a landing, and at the end of the next staircase a plaque with raised brass writing on it. She could only make out a few words. _Robin_, _survivor_, _allow_ and _wreckage_. It didn't tell much of a story. Maybe it had once been a tribute to something that had happened in that tree, but it was lost to time now.

Once she was in the top room, Bell crouched on a balcony that wrapped around the north side of the room. The only direction she couldn't see was south, and there was a good-sized window behind her that remedied that. She scanned the ground for signs of the other tributes, but saw nothing. After a few minutes she headed back into the room itself, and opened up the tent bag. It was a round shape, but if the seems were pulled apart, it would yield three or four good sized pieces of cloth. To spare an arrow, Bell tried to rip the stitches by pulling on the cloth, but the thread was much to strong.

She'd probably need to reserve an arrow for the fire starter. Might as well use it for the tent, too. Luckily, though there were still too few of them for Bell's taste, the arrows were broadheads. The tip radiated out into four sharp blades, to ensure heavy bleeding in struck targets. They were preferable to target arrows, which had a narrow point and a needle-like shape that were inappropriate for killing large animals.

Archery was something she'd taken up as a hobby, but she'd never really hunted. It wasn't uncommon for the children of the three poachers from the Seam to learn how to handle a bow and arrow; in case something happened to the parent, or so that they could take over the dangers of sneaking past the fence. Bell's family were coal miners through and through, and so up until she was around eleven years old, the only weapon she knew how to use was a shovel. Maybe she was scared of the reaping, or maybe she just wanted to learn how to shoot. Bell couldn't really remember, but a few of her friends who had experience with archery started to teach her in the afternoons. And, not too long after that, she'd started practicing by herself in the mornings. She loved it. The control she had, the power she started to feel in her shoulders and back as her strength increased. Most of all, she loved the precision.

She had an almost supernatural ability to aim her shot. She suffered in speed, though, because it always seemed to take her a beat too long to nock an arrow and pull back the string. And power wasn't a realistic goal for a girl of her size. What she had perfected in its entirety was patience.

The treehouse gave her the vantage point. The trees gave her stealth. The mechanisms of the compound bow gave her twice her own strength.

She would watch.

And she would wait.

But first, she had to secure her camp. The sharp edge of the arrow tore through the seams of the tent like a hot knife through butter. In a couple of days, if the Gamemakers did manage to chase her away from her tree, she might regret destroying the tent. But something about the air told her that it was going to rain like crazy. Plan for the day ahead, not the day that might not come. She stretched one of the smaller pieces of the synthetic cloth over the stretch of ceiling above the south-facing window. If a sudden downpour started, that was somewhere she'd want to keep dry. Who knew how many hours she would spend at that window in the days to come? Watching for someone to make their way towards her, blundering for a drink of water like the girl from District Six had.

She tacked the cloth to the ceiling with one of the metal tent stakes, but it wasn't easy to do by herself. Having her arms above her head so long tired her, and it took quite a bit of strength to drive the stakes in. She had no hammer, and had to make do with a branch that had fallen into one of the lower rooms. It was much noisier than she would have liked. Eventually, she managed to finish the job. The largest piece of the tent stretched between the bedposts like a canopy, and she reserved the third piece for later use.

By the time she was finished, the muscles in her arms ached and she was out of breath. But she couldn't rest yet. She had to keep going if she wanted to survive.

The sunlight began to dim, but not from the fall of night. The clouds were growing denser and darker, casting shadows over the ground of the arena.

A storm was on its way.

* * *

_A/N: Well, add the girl from D6 to your list of dead people..._


	13. Trust

"You just stick with me, and everything will go our way." The boy from District Two said with a winning smile, as he patted Fawn Doreen on the back.

He was too good to be true. Especially for a Career. He had wavy brown hair, twinkling eyes and a soft mouth that gave his face a boyish innocence. But Fawn noticed the sharpness in his movements, the aggression simmering just beneath the surface. Sometimes, he clenched his teeth when he spoke to her. The boy was dangerous and violent and trying to manipulate her, and she could tell.

Fawn didn't really have a choice other than to go along with it. She'd been making her way through the bushes towards the eastern side of the arena, but she'd picked the wrong direction. The terrain took a strange turn after about ten feet of dense foliage. It was flat concrete, cracked in places where long grass grew through. The cover of the trees ran out, and for a good stretch it was nothing but open space until the jagged ruins of what had once been some kind of city. There was an arch made of rusted metal and a sign beneath it that read _Tomorrowland_. Spheres, large brightly coloured metal spheres covered in scratches, littered the ground around the arch. Like marbles on a blacktop. Fawn figured that the smallest of them would be about six feet around; the largest would be fourteen. None of the buildings stood much higher than ground level, but their walls were jagged and crumbled and some of the roofs had collapsed. It looked as though they'd been taller once, but something had torn them apart so that only the foundations remained.

Her plan had been to run as quickly as she could across the pavement. Hide behind the walls of the ruins, or behind one of the spheres. Then, stay out of sight at all costs. Crawl through the rubble, try and find a tunnel or a sheltered corner that was hard to see. Fawn was going to stick to her plan.

Don't kill anybody. Hide. Find food. Wait for everyone else to die.

She ran for it.

It was almost thrilling - she'd never felt that kind of adrenaline before, and the intensity took her by surprise. It was like breathing clean air for the very first time. Fawn was invigorated, and ecstatic as she moved as quickly as she could across the ground. Her feet pounded against the pavement and her heart pounded against her chest. She smiled to herself as she crossed the finish line.

A muscled hand had snapped out and grabbed her shoulder, and pulled her into an alcove made of fallen concrete. The boy from District Two had smiled at her, and told her how lucky she was that it was him that caught her and not someone more dangerous. But Fawn didn't feel very lucky.

"Sure! I'm glad you're helping me out!" She smiled, tightening her grip on the javelin she'd recovered from the stockpile. It was bigger than what she was used to, but it was a weapon; the only weapon between the two of them. That was what the boy from Two wanted an ally for, she guessed. He hadn't grabbed anything at the Cornucopia, not even one of the dark green tarps that had been nearest to him.

"Yeah," The boy nodded, "You remind me of my little sister. She's kind of an airhead like you."

Fawn thought back to the interviews, when he had talked about his home life. He hadn't mentioned a sister then, which was unusual. Careers knew more than enough about how to win sympathies from the crowd. To them, siblings were another way to manipulate public perception.

"What's her name?"

"…Candace." His eyes darted to the left as he answered. Fawn thought he was a terrible liar; and if he was anyone else in any other place, she would have teased him about it.

"So, what's the plan? Should we split up? You can wait here, and I'll scout the area. I'll come back once I have a good grasp on the lay of the land, and we'll figure out our next move after that…" Fawn said, trying to sound authoritative. It didn't really work. She couldn't shake off the tone of her voice, which was a little bubbly and always too fast.

"No. We'd better stick together. What if you got into trouble while you were by yourself? You'd be dead meat then, wouldn't you?"

"I guess so."

"Hand over that spear of yours, it's almost as tall as you are." He tried out a friendly laugh that didn't suit him, and put out his hand expectantly.

"Oh, don't worry about me and my javelin!" Fawn held the weapon as tightly as she could, "I'm pretty handy with things like this! If somebody comes at us, why, I bet I could land this right in their groin! That'd slow 'em down!"

The boy cleared his throat and started talking to her through the clenched teeth of a false smile again.

"I'm sure you're tough as nails," He sneered, "But I've got more training with a spear than you have…"

"Then why do you keep calling it a spear? It's a _javelin_. If you don't even know its right name, how can I buy that you're some kind of expert in using it. You should have more faith in me. I'll protect us. Why don't we set up a camp, and you can stay there why I find us some berries to eat or something?"

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to get away from me or something," The boy from Two shook his head, "Don't be cocky, pipsqueak. Hand me the spear."

"No." Fawn stepped backwards, clutching her javelin. If she ran, would she be faster than him? Probably not. Careers got special training in things like running and endurance, didn't they? She wondered if she had any chance at all. Maybe she'd be one of the unlucky ones who died on the first day.

The mask of friendship fell from the boy's face, and he took a menacing step towards her.

"Give me the spear."

He lunged forward, and grabbed a hold of the javelin. His hands tried desperately, and with a panicking anger to wrench the weapon away from Fawn. She clung onto it as tightly as she could in return. The boy was close enough that she could smell his breakfast on his breath, and his grip was hard and mean as he wrenched and pulled. But Fawn wasn't letting go. She knew that the second he had her javelin, he was going to run her through with it. In that moment, her entire life depended on her somehow managing to be stronger than him.

Then, in a split-second, she realized that she couldn't win the fight. Her small, wiry muscles couldn't compete with the boy's power and training. He kicked her hard in the chest, so that her ribs nearly cracked and all of the breath rushed out of her. And he twisted his grip until her wrists burned and gave a sharp, irresistible yank that made her arms feel like they were going to pop out of their sockets if she didn't let go. So she did, tripping backwards onto the ground.

The boy levelled his newly acquired weapon at her. His eyes wolfish and triumphant, and a devil's smile on his lips. Everything seemed to go still and quiet, as though time had slowed to a crawl. The muscle's in the boy's arm tightened as he pulled back to thrust the tip of the javelin into her stomach. What would death be like? Fawn had never thought about it. Would it be darkness or…

_Thwip! Thwip!_

The boy from District Two dropped the javelin onto the pavement with a clatter. He stumbled forward, and fell against her. She pushed him away, and saw two arrows - one in the center of his back and one in his neck - as he slumped lifelessly onto the ground. Fawn could feel her eyes go wide, and her heart speed up.

She turned, the fear still coursing through her veins. At first all she could see was what looked like a solid dot not far from her nose. After her eyes focused, she realized that the dot was in fact the tip of an arrowhead and the length of a shaft aimed straight for her head.

"Oh! It's you!" She sighed, picking up the javelin and dusting herself off. The cannon fired for the dead body that lay on the ground between them, "I looked for you at the Cornucopia, but it was crazy! It was like… like… _crazy _crazy! There was blood everywhere and that one kid stepped on a landmine! It was so loud, I thought somebody shot me with a gun! That bow's not very nice. Did you make it yourself?"

Royal Alabaster rolled his eyes and lowered his weapon.

"Come on," He grumbled, "We need to get moving."

* * *

_A/N: Do you know what's a million times worse than having the yucky flu? Dislocating your elbow. _

_I didn't even know you could _**do**_ that, I thought joint dislocation was restricted to shoulders and hips and what-have-you. I guess the universe wanted to correct me on the subject. Anyway, this chapter was lovingly chicken-pecked out with my left hand, so please forgive any typos or grammar mistakes. Everything is taking me a million years longer than it normally does, and I'm super-grouchy. But I will persevere! ^_^_


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